


Heartstring

by egretudo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arithmancy (Harry Potter), Dragons, Espionage, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Here there be dragons, Mental Health Issues, Not Epilogue Compliant, Original Wizarding Nation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Royalty, Severus Snape Lives, Slow Burn, Spy Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27030109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egretudo/pseuds/egretudo
Summary: AU. Post-War. Snape Lives. Hermione has PTSD.A war-damaged Hermione who wants nothing more than a peaceful, quiet life is unwillingly drafted into service as a Ministry spy against a new potential threat. The closed, insular nation of Rusitania, mythical home to the ancient dragonlords, appears ready to engage with the modern wizarding world again, but to what end? New to the game of espionage, Hermione has a lot to learn from her reluctant handler Severus Snape. Together they work to infiltrate their enemy’s secrets while learning to cope with the horrors they have been subjected to in order to protect others. A Hermione Granger/Severus Snape romance.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Severus Snape, Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 35
Kudos: 69





	1. Craven

“How many years?”

“Dad I…”

“How many years?” he roared over her. The noise stunned her. Her father rarely yelled.

“Nearly four.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re telling me that you took away almost four years of our lives. FOUR YEARS, Hermione. Four years that we will never get back? And you didn’t even ask us?”

“I…” she started, her eyes darting to her mother who had turned away, shoulders heaving, whether in tears or sick she could not tell. “I wanted to keep you safe. I was a high-value target in the war and Voldemort would have gladly tortured or killed you to get to me. It was the only way I could think of to...”

“No!” her father interrupted, slicing his hand through the air. “Don’t lie. You could have talked to us about it. You could have included us in this decision. You chose not to.”

Her chest rocked with a lightning bolt of guilt. She clutched at it uselessly with one hand, grabbing at her own shirt. “I knew you would have said no!” she said desperate for him to understand. “I couldn’t have let you…”

“That’s it exactly, isn’t it? You couldn’t have let us. You took away our agency, Hermione. Our humanity. Our right to choose the paths of our own lives. Is that what magic has done to you? Made you think that because we are _Muggles_ that you are entitled to act on our behalf? Are you so superior to us now that we don’t even get a say in how we live our own lives? In how we fight or die?”

Hermione couldn’t breathe. She felt her cheeks soaked in wet. Her words wheezed out in a whisper with no air behind them. “Of course not. I…No. Dad. I just couldn’t bear if something…” 

A useless protest and she knew it. He was right. During a time where every choice had been life or death — when she carried the weight of so many lives on her shoulders — she had failed to remember what those lives valued. Everybody had endlessly looked to her for solutions: Dumbledore, Harry, Ron, even the Order. The possibility of letting them down had scared her more than death or torture. In turn, she’d made herself hard. Stoic. Willing to do whatever it took, make whatever sacrifice was necessary. In her desperate quest to have the right answers, to be the right person, she’d transformed into somebody calculating and cold. _Add two lives, multiply by safety, divide by risk._ Her parents' free will should never have been a variable in such cold calculus.

“Mum,” she entreated, hoping her mother could show mercy where her father clearly could not. “Please.” 

Her mother did not look at her. Instead, she walked from the room, head hung low, allowing the door to slam behind her. Hermione made a motion to follow but her dad stepped in her path. “Leave her be,” he said sighing. His face was twisted with pain. And she was the source. 

“The daughter we raised was taught better than this. We never should have sent you to that damned school. They turned you into something else. Somebody that I don’t recognize. You…” he fumbled at his next words but then they found his mouth with strength. “You violated us, Hermione. You need to leave. You are my daughter no longer.”

The words struck her like a punch. She had spent the last year working on the complex array of spells and potions necessary to reverse the memory charm without damage. Today was meant to be a happy day. A healing day. A day when the memories of the war would melt away while her parents wrapped her in their loving arms. How deluded and naive she was. How could it have turned out any differently than this? How could she not have realized what she had really done? What she had taken from them?

She lifted her legs to run but they would not obey her commands. Oh gods no. She had to flee. She had to get away from her father’s devastated face. But she was stuck in the room, rooted to the spot, effectively stupefied. Panic bubbling in her chest, she screamed.

* * *

Hermione woke drenched with sweat. Her mind was able to recognize that she was safe in her bedroom, but as always, her body was slower to catch on. Heart pounding, chest heaving, blood racing -- no number of slow, purposeful breaths could calm it. “It was just a flashback. You’re safe,” she murmured out loud, placing her hand on her chest and letting it rise and fall with her breath. Her therapist had said that grounding herself in spoken words would help. It did not. She felt a tight swell of anxious energy crescendo in her chest. If she was going to head this attack off, swift action was needed.

Five things she could see. “Cat. Book. Plant. Bed. Robes.” 

Four things she could touch. “Blanket. Pillow. Hair. Nightdress.” She reached for each in turn, trying to lose herself in the firing of her fingers’ nerve endings.

Three things she could hear. Her ears strained to find sounds in her quiet cottage. “Wind. Clock.” There must be another sound. She closed her eyes to search for it and then realized. “Breath.” 

Two things she could smell. Eyes still closed, she breathed in deeply again and caught the scent of her hearth, down to embers. “Fire.” And there, a hint of the lotion she applied last night. “Lavender.” 

One thing she could taste. There was only one thing she could think of. “Shame.” 

Her therapist would certainly not have approved of that last one, but the ritual had restored her heart to a normal enough rhythm. Shaking her head in frustration, she threw the covers back. It wasn’t yet dawn, but she knew there was no returning to sleep now. Instead she wearily slipped out of bed, whispered a wandless “Lumos” and yearned for the days when she didn’t have a tolerance to calming draughts. 

It was a chilly spring morning, and the stone walls of her country cottage would fail to insulate her until the sun’s rise began to bake the granite. Shivering, she stoked the fire and donned her fuzziest socks. Crookshanks blinked at her from his curled up position at the foot of the bed, an annoyed expression on his face that he was being disturbed so early. “Sorry Crooks,” Hermione whispered, giving his head a gentle scratch, which he leaned into before going back to sleep.

She padded into the kitchen to brew some tea, smiling as she did so. Nightmare or no, sun up or not, she relished mornings. There was something so lovely about the unwritten potential of a new day. So many things could yet happen; so many discoveries that could be made. She hadn’t yet made any mistakes or disappointed someone. It was a new start, a chance to get it right, and she reveled in the freshness of it.

Her cottage seemed most cozy in the morning as well. After the war, even with the small sum from her Order of Merlin, it had taken some time for her to find the right sort of living situation. Harry had offered a room at Grimmauld Place with him and Ginny, but she knew better than to intrude on newlywed bliss. Ron was always on the road with his Quidditch team and didn’t own a proper shirt much less a flat. Molly had approached her, eyes filled with concerned pity, told her that her parents would come around eventually and offered a room at the Burrow. No, she’d much rather be on her own than be a charity case.

She feared she had been a fretful challenge for the estate agent. At first she thought she wanted to live by the sea, but as she stood cliff-side staring into the great blue void, she immediately knew it was all wrong. Too exposed, too wide, too open. Too many chances that even with the right concealment charms that her solitude may be infringed on by a boat or beach-goer. 

There was a dreadfully tall tower in the Peaks District that they toured. There was no doubt living there would keep Hermione in shape, given the sheer height of the spiral staircases that threaded the stacked rooms. The agent excitedly pointed out that she could broom to any room in the house. But Hermione hated flying, and the endless circling stairs made her nauseous. Another dozen domiciles they’d viewed, none of them quite right, when the agent snarkily remarked that there were only so many wizarding houses in England and that perhaps she should lease for a time until more options came on the market.

The snide comment hit Hermione in a different way. Yes, there _were_ only so many wizarding houses on the market. But who said she had to live in a wizarding house? Muggle construction suited her just fine. A few clicks on the internet later, and she was standing with a Muggle agent in front of a lovely rustic cabin nestled into a glen of trees. Pockets of wildflowers were littered everywhere, and a bubbling brook crossed through the property.

“It’s certainly rustic, even for a weekend getaway home,” said the agent, holding his mobile in different directions to search for signal. “No reception. Electric may be spotty. Poor insulation. Limited services too. You’ll have to live without cable and wifi. And I hope you have a 4x4 to get up the road.”

“Is this a popular holiday spot? Will I see many people?” she asked.

“The Shropshire Hills are popular, yeah, but not out here on the fringes. This is too remote. Not many roads or trails go through here. You won’t have visitors, that’s for sure. The nearest town is Craven Arms, but it’s a good hour’s drive through muck.”

Craven Arms. Where a craven girl could live in a craven cottage. Hidden away from the world. It was perfect. 

“I’ll take it.”

The next year Hermione poured her soul into perfecting her little cottage. It wasn’t much: a living space, a bedroom, and a bathroom, but she packed it with warm comforts. The list of projects seemed endless. Erecting wards, building a greenhouse for magical plants, and even adding on a hidden, expandable second floor library wing. It was completely unnecessary for the library to be either of those things, but having a dramatic, secret library had always been a fantasy of hers. Her kitchen remained a mixture of Muggle and wizard. She had a refrigerator but it was charmed to stay cool. She had a cauldron station instead of a stovetop. But she also held onto conveniences like her toaster and her microwave oven. Sometimes the Muggle solution really was the superior option. With nothing else left to do, her final touch was the casting of the Fidelius Charm. After two failed attempts she’d managed it, much to her personal pride and delight. Her little craven cottage was secret kept. 

Tea sorted, she sat at her desk and began to sift through the two neat stacks of parchment. The first stack was what she wanted to work on. Arithmancy puzzles and enigmas, centuries-old curses to break, new hypotheses to prove -- all delightfully complex burrows to lose herself in for hours. But the second stack was what she was behind on. The deep pile of requests for romantic compatibility reviews, parenting dilemmas and career choices were, as Mr. Copper always said, their small firm’s “Bread and Butter”. They were trivial pieces of busywork for a witch like her. She procrastinated them as often as she could, and often got a talking to by Mr. Copper for doing so. But she decided that now she would just sit down and steamroll through as many as she could manage. Perhaps it would make today go easier.

Today marked the fifth year Hermione had worked at Mr. Copper’s Fancy Arithmancy. And she had a sinking feeling that her coworkers intended to throw her a party. 

Not that there was anything wrong with a little cake and a heartily belted round of “For she’s a jolly good wizard”. Her coworkers meant well enough. But having sat through four of these parties on anniversaries past, the thing that made them intolerable was the implication that having made it through five years of easy drudge work was some sort of fantastic achievement. If anything, it was a sign of how far she had fallen.

Hermione looked down at the stack of work she’d whittled down to a few scant parchments. Mr. Copper would be pleased. Copper. _Shit._ She was late. Again. 

There was no time to do anything about her hair. She furiously changed into her work robes, grabbed her wand, shoved the stack of parchment into her leather satchel, threw some floo powder, and clearly enunciated the name of her destination. One practiced blink into the flash of emerald flame and she was there.

* * *

Diagon Alley was its usual bustle of activity as robe-clad wizards and witches raced through on their various errands. It was only a block’s walk before she found herself underneath the same unobtrusive sign she had noticed five years ago. The letters were in all caps, in a rather steadfast font, and utterly devoid of decoration. They read:

MR. COPPER’S FANCY ARITHMANCY

A silly name to be sure, as there was nothing particularly fancy about what they did, but that sign had glowed for her like a lit beacon during a time she had been lost.

At the war’s end, there had been no rest. When she had wanted to stay home and grieve, she was instead trussed up for award ceremonies. When she wished to lose herself in the library to research how to restore her parents, instead she had to attend galas and feasts thrown in her honor. Everywhere she went was a celebration of life, but Hermione didn’t feel like celebrating. She felt hollowed out somehow. Exhausted and used up. She became resentful of the endless smiling faces, watching her expectantly, all wanting something from her. Hermione grew to resent them. Sheep, all of them, wanting her to do something or lead somewhere they could comfortably follow. 

Desperate to regain some sense of normalcy and control, Hermione sat her NEWTs. She achieved all Outstandings, reluctantly absorbed the congratulations of everyone she knew, and then came to a screeching, freezing halt. 

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have offers. Nearly every division in the ministry wanted her. Several private firms. Apprenticeships. Graduate schools. Owls were dropping letters every hour. Her friends kept stopping by to make helpful suggestions. But she couldn’t choose. Nothing felt right. Selecting a path forward, one thing to shape her life around to the exclusion of all others, suddenly seemed impossible. It was like she didn’t know her own mind anymore. 

“If you cannot choose, just pick one out of a hat, child,” Headmistress McGonagall had said when she’d asked for guidance. “Merlin knows you’ll be good at anything you take on.” 

“What if I don’t want to pick any of them?” Hermione had responded. And then Minerva got the strangest look on her face: one part pity, one part disappointment. Half like Hermione was a broken thing she didn’t know how to fix, and half frustration Hermione was wasting so much time being broken. It was a look that Hermione would come to know well. She would see it on the faces of her friends, her old teachers and her classmates. Nobody was quite sure what to do with the girl who had stopped being what she was.

That look burned into her brain, Hermione went home and dutifully put all of the job offers in a bag and stared at it. For hours. She could not even bring herself to draw one. Doing so would make her seen. Her choice would be reported in the Prophet. Everybody would contact her to congratulate her on it. The progress of her work would be tracked and reported on. She wished she could bundle herself in Harry’s invisibility cloak and remain there permanently.

Paralyzed, she responded to none of them. Eventually, the owls stopped coming.

Then the trials began. Hermione was called to testify for several of them. At Lucius Malfoy’s trial, she was asked to recount her torture in his home at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange, which she did in very plain terms without flinching or crying. Then that night as she was brushing her teeth, the first panic attack hit her.

They were frequent companions of hers thereafter. Each attack felt like a precursor to dying. She could not predict when they would occur, or what would set them off. Therapy gave her some tools on how to cope with them, sometimes stave them off even, but she could not prevent them from coming entirely. So she became more reclusive, seeing less and less of her friends and keeping to her home. Staying in seemed like a relief most days. Navigating the wizarding world as one of the Golden Trio brought her far too much attention. Everyone in the street had some sort of opinion about her, and many felt they were entitled to express it to her. She was constantly on guard in wizarding public, feeling dreadfully conspicuous even years after the war. When she had to go out in the Wizarding world, she would take back alleys, wear a hood, and studiously avoid eye contact.

And in the Muggle world? After her parents disowned her, she didn’t feel she deserved to be in the Muggle world anymore. Walking through non-magical London only served to remind her of the betrayals she had committed and what she had lost.

Neither place was safe. 

Her friends did not understand her withdrawl from society. The fight had never left Harry. His victory had left him feeling nearly invincible. He was an Auror now, still righting wrongs and battling bad guys. Ron had tackled peace with an enthusiasm he had never quite demonstrated for war. He’d embraced his celebrity, used it to weasel his way onto a major league quidditch team, and thrown himself into the party scene. He had wanted Hermione to come along for the ride, but after only a handful of nights imbibing experimental potions she’d had her share. They’d parted ways over it. The Daily Prophet gossip columns overflowed with stories of him sky diving off brooms or vanishing the clothes of an entire party. He had a new witch on his arm nearly every time he was photographed. Hermione envied his energy even while she recognized the signs of his avoidance.

And then on a trip back from Flourish & Blotts, she noticed it. The unadorned, simple sign announcing the second floor presence of an arithmancy service.

She’d always had a knack for arithmancy but it had held little appeal for her. Why had it not? Arithmancy was simple, graceful and finite. Big concepts were reduced to tiny symbols. Whether an equation balanced or did not was entirely impersonal. A formula could not judge her. Arithmancers themselves were the blandest of people. It was as safe and predictable as any discipline would ever be. 

Mr. Copper nearly fell over in surprise when she asked him for a job, but quickly recovered and agreed to her terms. Hermione only had to come into the office twice a week.

Working for the arithmancy firm had been just what she needed. It was steady and consistent work, which gave her a sense of rhythm and flow. Time passed quickly for her when doing arithmancy, and she was able to escape her own thoughts for a while. Mr. Copper never put pressure on her, and the work was never more than she could handle. Like the cottage she’d selected for herself, her job was satisfying, solitary and safe. And even if it didn’t thrill her, she was content and quiet, which seemed a much more appealing prospect these days. 

Today marked five years that she had been in his employ. Murmuring a plea to Circe that such an event might go unnoticed, Hermione braced herself and entered.

Mr. Copper’s Fancy Arithmancy was a study in contrasts. The front room, intended for clients, was white and light. Somewhat clinical, like an accountant’s office would be in the Muggle world, but welcoming nonetheless. Whereas the back room reminded Hermione of a dark cavern — in the best sense of the word. A black ceiling laced with intermingling arches met somber black walls, which were lined with copper oil lamps that created dancing shadows across every surface. It was the perfect environment for long, solitary work that required a great deal of concentration. 

Best of all, the back room was warded for silence so the five arithmancers working would be easily able to avoid the noise that could swell in the front room. You never knew when a client would begin to weep or wail at the equations not equalizing for a certain desired romantic relationship, or rage that their latest business venture was not a guarantee of good fortune. Bad news tended to bring out worse attitudes, but Hermione was comfortably shielded from these barrages in the snuggle of her muted workplace grotto. 

The front room was empty when she arrived, which wasn’t entirely unusual for this hour of the morning. Mindy, who manned the desk, may have been using the ladies room. But what was unusual was the emptiness of the back room. Hermione slung her bag onto her desk, confirmed she was alone, and called out a tentative “Hello?” For a moment, she was only met with eerie silence, when Mindy bustled into the room.

“Hermione! You’ve arrived at last. Could you join us in the conference room please?”

Ah. So they were to start the day with the surprise party then. Hermione had been expecting it at the end of the day, but she supposed they might as well get it over with. “Of course,” she said, and followed her into the conference room adjacent the client area.

Rather than the five arithmancers and the poorly constructed cake she expected to see, the room was instead packed with dozens of people. And when she entered, they all began to clap.

She blinked. First with surprise, but then with blindness as flashbulbs popped from a number of photographers at the rear. A hand enclosed hers and shook it vigorously. As she blinked the black spots from her eyes, she found herself looking into the ancient face of Byron Buckling, the head of the Arithmancer’s Society.

“Hermione Granger,” he pronounced in a gravely, authoritative voice, “In light of your recent work, I am here to present you with our society’s greatest honor: the Arithmancer’s Pencil.” From his jacket pocket he produced a silver pencil that was practically buzzing with charms. “As you all know, the Arithmancer’s Pencil is awarded on rare occasions to those who have made a significant arithmancy contribution to the advancement of our understanding of magic. We have not bestowed a pencil in the last eleven years. It is my absolute honor to present you with one now.” He made a great show of bowing his head and presenting it to her with two hands. Still bewildered, she could not think of another option but to take it from his elaborately proffered hands. Doing so produced another round of applause and flashbulbs.

When the applause diminished, the room stood silent, and it dawned on her that she was meant to say something. “I am…honored, sir,” she choked out. “I just..I’m not entirely sure what’s going on. My work hasn’t been that much better than my coworkers.” And that’s when she caught a glimpse of Mr. Copper’s face, red and pointedly avoiding her eyes.

Byron Buckling cackled. “Oh, Hermione. You are exceedingly modest. Rest assured, we are excited to share your brilliance with the world. The Daily Prophet is going to printing your paper in its entirety! Isn’t that remarkable? It is rare indeed for an entire scientific work to be published in such a way. You are bringing a new energy and awareness to our field that will reinvigorate it for years to come!”

“My paper?” Hermione murmured, wondering whether this was some sort of prank or strange dream.

One of the reporters handed her a parchment. “A preview of tomorrow’s edition, Miss Granger”. The headline read:

**Member of Golden Trio Solves Centuries-Old Arithmancy Mysteries**

And below it:

A Unified Theory of Wards

By Hermione Granger

As Hermione hurriedly scanned the equations she realized: this was her work. It was her _private_ work. The work that she did to pass time. Not the work that she did for money. She had never intended to show these to anyone. So how had they somehow gotten out? Looking again at the bashful flashes on Mr. Copper’s face, she was starting to have an idea of what happened.

The reporters started lobbying questions. 

“Miss Granger, is this what you’ve been doing for the last six years?”

“Miss Granger, what does Harry Potter think about your work?”

“Miss Granger, are you prepared to step back into the spotlight?”

She held both hands up to ask for silence and registered the faces in the room for the first time. Her coworkers were present, but also famous arithmancers, politicians, and journalists. 

“This is all so surprising,” she started slowly, searching for solid footing. “I am, of course, thrilled and honored, but I am also overwhelmed. If you will excuse me, I just need a moment to…collect myself before I answer questions. I will return momentarily.” She hurried out of the room, avoiding looking at the confused expressions on the faces she was leaving behind. “Mr. Copper, if you would join me?” she said as she grabbed his arm and yanked him behind her. Copper had the good sense to let her guide him to his private office, where she wanded the door and blinds shut with an aggressive jab.

“Hermione, I am so sorry,” he started right away in that bumbling manner of his. “Trust me, I am as horrified as you. I had no idea Byron was planning on this; he gave me no warning. And he brought the press! It was an ambush and I had no time to warn you.” Mr. Copper was clearly not much happier about the situation than she was. His small wire-rimmed glasses were crooked across his nose and his cheeks a deep shade of outraged pink above his white mustache.

“You did this,” she hissed. “You somehow stole my work and published it? How?”

He cast his eyes downward. “About a month ago when you turned in your parchments, there were a few pages mixed in that I didn’t recognize. The work is extraordinary, Hermione. Revolutionary, even.” 

The two piles of parchment. She must have mixed them up somehow. Damn it, this was her fault. 

“So you published it? Without even asking me?”

“I thought you’d be pleased. This is one of the most significant papers in our field since _Paxtoria’s Conjuration Theorems_. I mean, you simplified the three ward theorems into a single equation while reconciling house elf and phoenix apparition exceptions. And there’s work in here that might transform not only wizarding security protocols but wizarding transportation and travel as well.”

“You thought I’d be pleased? With that?” she said in incredulous disbelief, flinging her arm towards the zoo in the conference room.

He shook his head defensively. “I couldn’t have predicted that. When has the press ever taken notice of arithmancy?”

“When it involves a member of the bloody golden trio. Mr. Copper. Had you asked I would have said no. And had you insisted, I would have asked you to publish it under a pseudonym. Or under your own name. But now, I have to contend with this mess.”

“This is your life’s work we’re talking about here, Hermione.”

“My life’s work is to avoid being on the front page of the Daily Prophet ever again. Which you have thoroughly destroyed for me in the span of one morning.”

“I understand your reticence to be in the public eye again, Hermione, but truly — you are hiding your light under a bushel. You’re depriving the wizarding world of something truly magnificent. I understand you have your reasons, but you deserve credit. It’s okay to allow yourself to receive it.”

Hermione felt as if she might explode. “That is my choice. Not yours! You have stolen my choice from me.”

The words she spoke instantly brought back echoes of her father’s voice. It was the same intonation; the same impotent rage at a choice stolen. The realization blew out the fire fueling her anger like someone puffing out a candle. In the absence of flame, the shame had ample space to fill the void.

Perhaps Copper was right - she did deserve this. Not as the reward he wanted for her, but as a punishment. It was simply karma to have control of her life stolen from her, when she had taken that same control from her parents. It was no less than she deserved.

Feeling as if a void were opening beneath her, she collapsed into the chair nearest her, grabbing her chest and heavily breathing. Mr. Copper fluttered with concern around her, patting her back awkwardly and offering water, but she could not reply. It was all she could do to continue to breathe in and out through the feeling of her chest caving in on itself. 

After some time had passed, her ears began processing noises again. The first thing she heard was her own gulping breaths. The next was Mr. Copper.

“Hermione, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I am sorry. You should go, if you can. I’ll take care of Byron and the rest. It’s the least I can do. Go. Take care of yourself.”

Her brain heard the suggestion to leave and grabbed hold of it. _Flee. Yes. Hide. Leave. Fast. Good. Get to safety_ , spoke her lizard brain, and her legs stumbled her out of the building and into the floo without the aid of conscious thought.


	2. Mission

The next two days were hell. Her cozy, craven cottage became the center of a hurricane.

 _The Daily Prophet_ came out the morning following the ambush. In the front page photo, her hair was broadly teased around her head. A well-placed oil lamp lit it from behind, giving her the look of a celestial, other-worldly lion. The photo captured her raising her fingers to her O-shaped mouth as her eyes widened: a gesture that looked like genuine surprise and delight. Why her eyes didn’t read the horror she was feeling in the moment, she couldn’t say. Perhaps the wizarding equivalent of Photoshop had finally been invented. Or perhaps she’d become too good at pretending.

The onslaught of congratulations that bombarded her home thereafter was overwhelming. The sky outside looked like Heathrow airspace with an enormous line-up of owls ready to drop letters. For a while she tried keeping the windows closed, but as increasing numbers tapped the glass with their beaks and talons, she knew she didn’t have the heart to continue to frustrate the creatures in their task. She opened her most remote window and let the letters accumulate there in a neglected stack. As way of apology, she placed an enormous bowl of owl treats for the poor creatures hauling these unwelcome missives to her remote corner of the country.

Letters were easily enough ignored, but it was harder to ignore the Floo, which lit with familiar and unfamiliar heads with maddening regularity. The spell to disconnect her Floo from the network was easy enough, but working through the Ministry red tape to reconnect it could take weeks. She only had food and toilet roll to last a week, and no vehicle with which to retrieve new supplies. No, the Floo had to stay connected and there wasn’t much she could do about it.

She endured it the first day; tried to be the person that she was supposed to be. She spoke to Minerva, Molly, Professor Victor, Neville, Hagrid, and a dozen others, expressing thanks and attempting to keep conversations short and polite. Dinner invitations she deflected with “Let me get back to you - my schedule is quite packed at the moment.” Those that knew her well did not buy it, but also did not challenge her. That evening, she collapsed into her bed with a migraine and legs that wouldn’t stop aching from being clenched with tension all day.

The following morning, she only had time for breakfast before the action in her Floo began anew. Tuning out another request for an audience, she yanked on a raincoat and wellies. Who cared if it was raining cats and dogs outside? Spending a day digging in the garden was surely going to be better than sitting around having to fake gratitude all day. Again.

With her door closed firmly behind her, and the dripping forest ahead, she started to feel herself unwind. Her shoulders, which had been hunched alongside her ears, began to inch their way down. She wound her way through her garden, rolling her neck. The path to her little greenhouse was slogged with mud and puddled water, so Hermione had to step carefully to keep her footing. 

Which was probably why she did not notice the man leap out from behind the tree until the flashbulb flared. 

Her wand was instantly in her hand. _Incarcerous_ , she cast reflexively. Thick, fibrous ropes leaped from her wand, binding the man in place. His camera fell to the ground and sank deeply into the muck.

As she stalked towards him, she felt all of the frustration from the last few days bubble up until it felt like a swarm of furious bees had infiltrated her nervous system. How dare he intrude on her privacy? Her personal boundaries had been violated. Now her property boundaries had been violated. She was done with just sitting back and allowing it to happen. The rain fell away. The forest fell away. All that was left was the intruder and her cold, frenzied rage.

She was close enough now that she could see him struggling against his bindings, eyes wide in fear. She grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, poking her wand deep into his neck. 

“What are you doing on my private property?” she growled softly.

The man was trembling, slightly. She found she liked that. She pressed the wand in a bit deeper to encourage an answer. “J-j-j-just my job, Miss,” he managed.

“Your job is to trespass? And to take images without people’s permission?”

When he didn’t respond, she twisted her wand slightly to the right to tighten the ropes. Just slightly. She didn’t want to actually hurt him, but she didn’t mind him thinking she might. His resultant yelp sent a rush of power through her. After feeling powerless for so long, it felt really good. Like eating after a long period of fasting: subtle warmth and energy lit up her body, threading through her veins.

“P-p-p-please!” he cried. “I didn’t mean anything by it! I’ll leave right now.”

“How did you even find my home?” Hermione demanded.

“I just followed the owls. Please. Let me go and I’ll leave. Straight away.” The owls. Of course. It wouldn’t matter if a home was secret-kept so long as a convoy of owls was dotting a precise path to it.

She stepped back. As tempting as it was to curse this idiot into next year, she didn’t fancy spending any time in Azkaban.

 _Finite Incantatem_ , she spoke reluctantly, and the ropes faded into nothingness. She did not lower her wand. “You may go. Please inform whoever sent you that I will not be as understanding next time.”

The man’s eyes darted to the camera in the mud below her. He made a motion to reach for it, but Hermione lifted her foot and used it to press the camera firmly into the mud, sinking it down nearly entirely. The mud squished and belched at the offering. 

Knowing he’d lost, the man finally turned to go. Hermione held her wand at the ready until he was out of sight.

When he was, she dropped her arm. The tears started to come, but she wiped them off her cheeks and tried to breathe evenly. There would be time for crying later. Right now she had wards to erect. 

The rest of the day and into the dark of the evening, she raised additional protective charms around the property. Everyone that she could think of, and then she went back inside to research a few more, and cast those as well.

Arms aching, head throbbing, she finally collapsed into her armchair. She decided she was looking forward to tomorrow. Tomorrow, surely, with all of these additional protections in place, she could finally rest and recover. Find some peace with this situation. Maybe make a plan on how to move forward. 

Her Floo lit green once again. “Hermione, I need to talk to you. Can I come through?” said a familiar voice.

She groaned. The last thing she wanted right now was to entertain Harry. Of course he wanted to congratulate her on the publication, like all the others. She’d have to simper and smile and pretend like everything was fine, and she simply didn’t have the energy. “It’s been a busy day, Harry. I’m absolutely knackered. Can we talk tomorrow?”

“I wish we could. But I’m afraid this isn’t a social call. I need to speak to you in an official capacity.”

Official capacity? What could he mean by that? As an Auror? Had the publication somehow gotten her in trouble with the Ministry? She clenched her teeth. Why had Mr. Copper meddled in her affairs? Her life of pleasurable solitude was quickly going to shit. Still, it was better to talk to Harry now than some…unfriendlier Auror later on. “Come on through,” she said reluctantly.

The Floo glowed, and Harry tumbled onto her hearth, coughing a bit, glasses slightly askew. Shaking the ash from his hair, he reached out to embrace her with a broad grin. The grin panged at something in her chest that made her open her arms and throw them around him fiercely, despite her simultaneous instinct to recoil. To her surprise, the hug actually felt good.

“It’s good to see you, Hermione. It’s been too long.” 

“It has,” she agreed while owning none of it. “Now what’s this about official business? Shall I call you Auror Potter while you’re here? Are Aurors allowed to accept some tea?”

He grinned again. “Coffee, if you have it. And please don’t ever call me anything other than Harry.”

“Even when you’re Minister?” she teased, as she aimed her wand at her kettle to heat the water.

He rolled his eyes. “I have enough red tape in my current job, thanks very much. I have no interest in anything with more bureaucracy.”

“That, I believe,” Hermione said. “But somebody needs to notify the _Prophet_. Not a week goes by where they don’t speculate about your political future.”

“I suppose they’ll have to learn to live with disappointment. Speaking of which, I understand congratulations are in order.”

Spooning the coffee into mugs, she tried to cover her flinch. “Oh yeah. Thanks I guess.”

“You’re not happy about it?” Harry asked.

Hermione shrugged, pouring the water. “It’s not that. It’s just all of the attention from the _Prophet_. One of their stooges jumped me from behind a tree this morning, really scared the pants off me.”

“Those assholes.” Harry sounded genuinely angry. He’d had his share of unfair dealings with the press. “Listen Hermione, if you want, I’ll send a few Aurors out to patrol the house until things cool off.”

She shook her head vigorously. Last thing she needed was more official attention on the situation. “I appreciate that Harry, but I spent a lot of time redoing the wards this afternoon. It won’t happen again.”

Hermione brought the mugs to the table and gestured for him to sit. Harry did so and took a sip of his coffee. “Harry. You’re not here to talk about the _Prophet_. What’s going on?”

The guilty look on his face did not bode well for this conversation. She’d seen that look on Harry’s face many times. She knew when he was about to make an unreasonable request of her.

“Hermione. I know you told me that I couldn’t do this anymore, but I need your help. The Ministry, actually, needs your help.”

Her heart sank. “How many times do I have to say it? I don’t want this anymore. I want to just live my life and not get drug into things? How hard is that for people to understand?”

“I know,” he said grimly, looking at his mug. “I reminded the Ministry as much. You’re right, you deserve to be left alone. You’ve earned that. Which is why I wouldn’t be here unless it was important, and there was no other way.”

His words were drawing the tight knot in her stomach even tighter. She felt nauseous. It was all happening again, wasn’t it?

“Just tell me,” she begged. Harry raised his wand and said a quiet “ _Muffliato_ ”.

“My home is already warded for silence,” she pointed out.

“This requires extra caution. Hermione, what do you know about Rusitania?”

Rusitania? She blinked, momentarily surprised by the obscurity of the question, but her encyclopedic brain swiftly kicked in. 

“Rusitania was a region of Russia that splintered from the Wizarding community during the Warlocks’ Convention of 1709. They were prolific dragon tamers, who disagreed strongly with the prohibition on dragon breeding, but were outvoted. When the Warlocks Convention threatened extermination if they did not comply, they shut their entire territory within incredibly strong wards, impenetrable by Muggle and Wizard alike. Nobody has heard from them since. The wards still exist and are the source of much study, but they still have not been penetrated. Nobody knows what’s happening within them, or if the Rusitanians even still exist.”

Harry gave a weak smile. “For a moment there, we were back in class and you just showed everybody up again. That’s exactly right. An entire wizarding nation locked behind impenetrable wards for centuries. One of the great mysteries of modern wizarding society. That’s what they told us in school. But it’s not entirely true.”

Hermione sighed. “I suppose I should be surprised at that, but I’m not.” Harry nodded in understanding. The Ministry had some serious issues with transparency. 

“The truth is, we do still have contact with the Rusitanians, of a sort. There was a secret trade agreement that was hammered out in the mid-19th century with the European Wizarding communities. Every year on the same date, there is an exchange made. We provide them with certain items that they lack: precious metals, ingredients, certain foods and potions — and they provide us with a supply of dragon heartstrings.”

Hermione gasped, realization dawning over her. “Merlin! It makes sense. I can’t believe I never saw it before. So many witches and wizards have wands with a dragon heartstring core, but so few dragons actually exist on the reserves. The heartstrings aren’t coming from the reserves at all? They are coming from Rusitania?”

Harry nodded slowly. “It’s worse than you think. The wizarding community has lost the ability to harvest heartstring from dragons at all. Somewhere along the line, as dragons became more scarce, the skills were lost. So we are completely dependent on Rusitania for this supply.”

“Harry, my wand contains a dragon heartstring. You’re saying my wand, my magic…it comes from…”

“Rusitania.”

She frowned. “I can see why this isn’t common knowledge. It wouldn’t make our wizarding governments look very good to know that a quarter of our wand supply is completely dependent on an isolationist state we know absolutely nothing about.”

“Exactly,” said Harry. “And the trade agreement has worked perfectly for a century and a half. So there has never been any reason to rock the boat.”

“Until now?” The largeness of whatever Harry was about to reveal was suddenly starting to worry Hermione. She felt herself grow very still. “What’s happened Harry?” she said quietly.

His large grin was nowhere to be found now. Harry looked tired and worn out. She recognized this side of him too, weary from living on the run and dreading unwelcome tasks. He pulled a scroll of parchment from the sleeve of his Auror robes and silently wanded it to open on the table.

“For centuries, there has been a magical monitoring station on the perimeter of the wards. Every few decades somebody gets sent there to figure out if we can learn anything new from the wards, but all they come back with are questions. We don’t know what type of magic powers the wards, what their origins are, or how they could be breached. The monitoring shows that they are remarkably stable, but they do have some regular fluctuations.”

He indicated to the first parchment. On it was a graph, plotting some indication of ward frequency over time, going back over the last 20 years. Hermione examined it. The wards were remarkably regular, not fluctuating in the slightest, except for two blips on an annual basis, one large and one small. She pointed to one of them, “This is the trade exchange?”

“Yup. The wards allow a single communique to pass through every year: a document that indicates the supplies they need and how many heartstrings they will provide in exchange. That takes place one week exactly prior to the exchange. The larger blip is the exchange itself.”

“How does the exchange take place?” she asked, eyes soaking in the data.

“There is a small building that straddles the wards. Items placed inside of the building are transported beyond the wards into Rusitania at the same time that items on their side are transported to ours. As far as we can tell, the wards only come down in the building, they are only down for a millisecond and the transfer is near-instantaneous.”

“How do you know that?”

“A few times the European Wizard Assembly has sent charmed equipment through designed to send signals back home. It stops transmitting the moment it’s on the other side, but we are able to detect the small fluctuation in the ward prior to that happening.”

Hermione nodded. “So what’s changed?”

Harry wanded the parchment again so the top layer rolled up, revealing the layer beneath. It was another graph, this one significantly more interesting, dotted with many peaks and valleys. 

“Two weeks ago, some alarms started going off in the Department of International Magic Cooperation. It took a while to pin down what the alarms were even for — nobody working there even remembers them being set up. But eventually, they were tracked back to the Rusitanian ward monitoring station. The wards were going crazy. The craziness only lasted about twenty minutes, and then it went completely back to normal. Like nothing had ever happened.” 

Hermione’s eyes skimmed the peaks. There was something unusual about them and not just the enormous deviation from the previous pattern. She used her wand to scroll the graph forward. They seemed organized somehow. There were repetitions of patterns. Suddenly it came together in Hermione’s head, and she gasped.

“Harry, this is a code!”

He chuckled softly. “Took you about five seconds to figure out something it took the Ministry two weeks to determine. Nice to see some things haven’t changed, Hermione.”

She was too excited to acknowledge the compliment. “Did they run it through translation spells? What does it say?”

He nodded. “It took a while. The language is old. Gaglio something or other?”

“Glagolithic? Precursor to Cyrillic?”

Harry snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. The history nerds on this said that the language was considered ancient and obsolete even when Rusitania erected the wards, so it was strange it was being used.”

“Perhaps not so strange if you were trying to send a message without it being understood by someone looking over your shoulder.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Harry’s face was wan.

“Harry James Potter. What does it say?”

“It says ‘Danger. Dragons are coming.’”

They were silent as Hermione contemplated this for a moment. The message was foreboding and somewhat cryptic, but she couldn’t match it to the severity of Harry’s facial expressions. “So it’s a warning of some kind. But of what?”

Harry looked at her, his eyes aching. She felt her limbs start to go cold as her body sensed danger.

“Harry, what aren’t you telling me?” she said slowly, almost not wanting him to continue.

“Hermione, today they received the list of supplies for this year’s heartstring order. And for the first time ever, there was a request for a person on there.”

She felt the floor start to drop out from under her. “No,” her mouth formed but couldn’t quite get out. 

“Hermione, the Rusitanians have asked for you.”

It couldn’t be. This was a dream. A terrible dream. And she would wake up and calm herself down and then laugh about how realistic it felt. She remembered once hearing that one way to tell if you were in a dream was to count your fingers. For some reason, dreams were absolutely terrible at conjuring up the proper number of fingers. She looked down and counted to ten. _Shit_.

This was not a dream. And yet she was feeling strangely numb. Disconnected from her body. Like she was having this conversation at one end of a very long tunnel.

“Why me? What on earth do I have to do with this?” she asked, her voice sounding very far away. 

Harry’s mouth was set in a rigid line. “I wish I knew. Some in the Ministry think it may have something to do with your arithmancy work on wards. Others think it’s part of your status in the golden trio. But I’d be lying if I told you I knew for sure. We don’t know what they’re after, what they want, what’s going on. And unfortunately, that’s where you come in.”

“What do you mean that’s where I come in?”

“I am here to ask you, in an official capacity, to go to Rusitania. Your mission would be to collect intelligence to send back to the Ministry. We simply don’t know anything at this point. All we know is that the situation in Rusitania is starting to change and seems anything but stable. Somebody is warning us about danger and dragons and now this. We need to figure out what is going on if we’re going to act.”

At mention of a mission, she seemed to zoom through the tunnel in her awareness, like she was being flung from a cannon. What was being asked of her hit her square in the chest. Her heart beat faster as panic and rage crowded her in equal measure.

“So let me make sure I understand. You want me to hand myself over to some potentially hostile wizarding nation, whose intentions are entirely unknown, to be tortured and god knows what else, behind impenetrable walls never to be seen again? Are you insane? My odds would be better in Azkaban!”

“I know. It’s mental.”

“So why are you asking this of me?”

“It's the Ministry that's asking. I just got the ‘privilege’ of delivering the request. Shacklebolt thought it might be better coming from me.”

It initially comforted Hermione somewhat to hear that Harry thought this was crazy too. But then again, he was still here asking her to do this. He could have refused to do so. He could have threatened to quit; given his status in Wizarding society, they would have had to listen to him. She’d seen Harry take stands before over much less. So, no. No matter what he claimed, he was here asking her to do this because he found the reward justified the risk. And the risk in this case was her very life. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that she’d given nearly everything for Harry in the war, he was here to ask her to give whatever was left over. 

Some of the grief she was feeling must have been written on her face, because when Harry spoke again, it was gentler. “Listen, you should hear all of it, unpleasant as it is. You wouldn’t be entirely alone. They’ve found a way to send you a handler. It’s just one person, but it would be some back-up.”

“What?” Hermione’s voice was a mixture of despondency and confusion. “But the wards are impenetrable. They can get someone through?”

Harry nodded. “Sort of, a little bit.”

Hope flared in her. “Well they can send that person in to gather intelligence then, right? It doesn’t have to be me.”

“They can get beyond the wards, but only to one specific location. Once there they are trapped.”

“What do you mean trapped?”

Harry paused. “You’re not going to like this.”

“I already hate it. Tell me.”

“During the First Wizarding War, a deal was struck between the Rusitanians and…Voldemort.”

Hermione snorted, and then began to laugh manically. She couldn’t help it. What else was there to do? 

“This is mad. You know that right? How did they even know who Voldemort was?” she managed through cackles.

“Nobody really knows for sure. All we know is that a deal was struck and an unbreakable vow sworn. Voldemort would leave Rusitania alone if they would provide a safehouse behind the wards. A fall-back position for him and his Death Eaters should something happen. Entrance to this safehouse could only be obtained with a specific Portkey and the Dark Mark. After Voldemort was killed the first time, several Death Eaters fled to the safe house and lived there until Voldemort arose again. Today it stands abandoned.”

“You want me to turn myself over to a place that conspired with _Death Eaters_? A place that made a deal with Voldemort?”

Harry’s responding shrug infuriated her. “We don’t know their motivations behind the deal. It’s shocking Voldemort would negotiate with anybody. It’s possible they posed some resistance that he was unprepared for. It’s possible they posed no resistance and they had to negotiate for their very lives. We just don’t know.”

Hearing Harry talk so casually about allying with Voldemort was chilling. Six years ago, had he heard about such a pact with Voldemort, he would have instantly denounced the other party as evil. People were black or white, good or bad. Now years later, his worldview was decidedly less binary. Not that Hermione could blame him for that - it wasn’t as if her idealism had stood the test of time either. 

What was it about aging that distanced people from idealism? Was it simply a realization that life was more complex than it seemed when you were a child? Or was it the other way round? Perhaps the complexities of life slowly and repeatedly enticed one to compromise their values to the point where they eroded, like water trickling over sandstone: seemingly harmless but slowly digging a chasm. 

She found herself thumbing at the scar on her arm and wrenched her hand away. There was no point in going down this rabbit hole when there were more existential threats to face. She needed to work the problem. The Ministry only wanted her to go because they had no alternatives. She needed to give them some.

“So, setting aside Death Eaters for a moment, you have a Portkey that can penetrate the Rusitanian wards. You have a way in.”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“So use it. Infiltrate that way. Leave me out of it.”

“The Portkey only goes to the safehouse. The safehouse is behind the Rusitanian wards but is itself warded so no one can leave it.”

“Reverse engineer it, Harry. Figure out how it gets behind the wards and make a Portkey that doesn’t go to the safehouse. Or figure out how to take the wards on the safehouse down.”

“It’s been tried. And failed. There’s no time to try again. The exchange is six days away.”

“Have you tried using a house elf?” she asked, her frustration starting to rise again.

“We have. We’ve tried every protection charm exception we know of. And when your equations came out, we even tried running things through that framework. Trouble is, the Rusitanian wards don’t fit to any known ward mechanics. They never have - they are something unique.”

There had to be another alternative. A workaround. Why couldn’t she think of anything? Something started to break in Hermione. She rose to her feet, took her mug, and thumped it into the sink with the goal of making as loud of a crash as possible. “This isn’t fair! Why is the Ministry so bloody incompetent? Why do I have to be the person that does bloody everything? Why does it always have to be me?”

“Hermione. Please. Stop shouting. Let’s talk some more about this.”

She began to pace. “Harry. If I go, I’m trapped there. Alone. No allies. I can’t leave. There’s no escape for me.”

“The Rusitanians have assured us that no harm will come to you, and that if it is your wish you may return the following year.”

Her tone was acid. “So when you get the letter next year that I’ve decided not to come back, will that help you cope easier with the image of me being raped for the rest of my life in some Rusitanian dungeon?” 

Harry had the decency to look ashamed. “I understand how you feel Hermione. If I could go in your place, I would. This is dangerous, and as your friend, I don’t want you to go.” 

“You don’t?” she said her voice pitching up in sarcasm. “Then why are we even having this BLOODY CONVERSATION?” At this explosion, there was a pause. It was long enough that Hermione was conscious of the echo of her scream and the heat in her face. 

Harry was looking at the table, his face scrunched and pale. “Did you know that Ginny is pregnant?” he said quietly.

It was fascinating how quickly rage could empty out, and how hollow Hermione felt in its wake. “Harry…that’s wonderful news. Congratulations. To you both.” She tried to infuse genuine happiness for her friend into her trembling voice.

“Before we knew, I started to get this feeling. I can’t explain it - how I knew - but I just did. I looked at Ginny, and I knew that there was somebody else there too. Sensed it.”

Harry’s gut had been famously on the money about lots of things. They had to rely on it often during the war, and his instincts usually panned out. “I believe you. I’ve often wondered whether you missed your calling in Divination,” she joked.

He smiled at that. “We aren’t telling people yet, Hermione. It’s too early. But the reason I wanted to tell you is…I have a feeling about this too. I’ve never had my gut hammering ‘danger’ signals so hard. Not since Voldemort. And I know that you’re going to hate me for saying this, but I have a feeling that you’re somehow important to what happens.”

Hermione didn’t know how to respond to all of this. Harry was going to be a father. Harry wanted her to risk her life and become a spy. It was overwhelming. 

The background process of her mind was rapidly cycling between resentment, fear, rage and self-pity. But then, in the central eye of her mind’s hurricane, she looked at Harry and saw the patient, compassionate look fixed on his face. He was her friend. She thought of Ginny, also her friend, who was now going to be a mother. She had neglected them both so badly. They had not spoken in months. How had she gotten it all so wrong? Guilt crowded out the other emotions. Suddenly, she felt the need to explain her behavior.

“You know I’m not angry at you for asking, right? I’m just angry at…I don’t know…Fate? The Universe? I’m angry that there isn’t another way.” A tear slipped down her cheek.

Harry rose from his chair and walked to her, placing his hand on her shoulder lightly. “I get that. I felt angry a lot during the war. Still do sometimes. Angry at Dumbledore for charging me with those tasks. Angry at my parents for not just letting me die with them. Angry at the world for letting it all happen.”

She and Harry had never really talked this candidly before about what happened during the war. It was comforting to know he had some of the same feelings she did. Perhaps they should talk about these things more regularly. If she lived.

“Hermione,” he continued, “If you decide to go, I will be with you every step of the way. The intelligence you get out, we will use. We will plot and plan and find a way to get you out safely. I swear to you.” 

There was nothing in the world more earnest than a solemn oath sworn by Harry Potter. It made Hermione want to be better. She had to do better by her friends. And their child. She took a deep breath and tried to summon her courage. “Ok. I’ll go.”

Harry looked at her with some concern. “Are you sure?”

She shoved his arm off her shoulder. “Stop making me second guess myself or I’ll change my mind.”

“You’re the best and bravest of us all, Hermione.”

“I’m not. At least not anymore. But I can’t let Harry Jr. grow up in a world not knowing what lies behind those wards.”

Harry grinned. “No, I suppose not.”

They stood for a moment smiling at each other, when Hermione realized there was something she’d forgotten to ask.

“Who is going to be my contact on the inside?”

Harry winced. “Our options were rather limited, since it needed to be somebody with the Dark Mark that we could trust.”

“Draco?” she asked hopefully. 

Harry’s head shake was almost imperceptible. “He’s on the continent keeping a low profile right now.”

“Then who?”

“Your handler will be Severus Snape.”


	3. Personae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously:_
> 
> _Hermione copes with PTSD via isolation, then accidentally wins an award for her arithmancy work on wards. The publication draws the attention of isolationist wizarding state Rusitania, who broke from the wizarding world during the Warlocks Convention of 1709, over a dispute regarding dragons._
> 
> _Rusitania erected impenetrable wards around their small nation and only communicate with the outside world once a year when they receive a drop of goods in exchange for a supply of dragon heartstring wand cores. In their latest list of requests, for the first time they requested a person: Hermione._
> 
> _Meanwhile, the Rusitanian wards have been flaring, delivering a coded message warning of Danger. The Ministry, via Harry Potter, has asked Hermione to go to Rusitania for the year to gather and pass back intelligence about the nature of the threat. Thanks to a safehouse within the wards only Death Eaters can travel to, Severus Snape has been recruited as her reluctant handler._

May weather in England was notoriously fickle. Yesterday had been sunny and fine, but today it was chilly, damp and misting fine droplets. It was very nearly the glum type of day that Severus preferred. Nearly. The spoiler was an inconstant wind, gusting with frigid irregularity from the north. Just when his body thought it had adjusted to the temperature, the wind would howl “Not so!”, penetrate through his black waistcoat, and sneak its aching cold deep into his bones.

One warming charm was all it would have taken to find some comfort. He could have done it wandless and wordless, but he did not cast one. Discomfort seemed a more appropriate sensibility for the present undertaking. And besides, he was enjoying casting blame for his chilled state on the person he was waiting for, who was now three minutes late.

From where he stood atop the slight hill, he had a tolerable view of the surrounding countryside — sloping pastured fields dotted by stone fences. With his position on the high ground, he knew he was not failing to see her. No, it was she who clearly still demonstrated wanton disrespect for the time of others. This boded poorly for this farce of a cooperative effort.

Stamping his feet to force warmth into them, he wondered how long would he have to stand here before he could go back to Shacklebolt and tell him that the girl hadn’t shown. Fifteen minutes? Thirty? He began to hope. Perhaps she would lose her nerve and they could both free themselves from this odious task. He wanted no part in this foolhardy romp. 

“She’s no spy,” he had protested. “I know Miss Granger. The child has no talent for deceit.”

“She’s 25 now, Severus. Far from a child,” Shacklebolt said, lighting a pipe with his wand. “And besides, she did well enough keeping Potter alive and hidden during the war.”

“Hiding and spying are not the same skill set. Quite the opposite, in fact.” 

Shacklebolt exhaled and the warm smell of tobacco filled the air. “Severus, don’t you see? That’s why we need you. We have never had a formal subterfuge division at the Ministry. Some of the Aurors can infiltrate when necessary, but nobody has been in deep cover like you. She needs to benefit from your experience.”

“My _experience_? The experience you publicly condemned and punished me for? I am not an imbecile, Kingsley. This is about the dark mark getting someone behind the wards. Not my illustrious résumé.”

“It can be about both, you know.” Shacklebolt sighed. “I can see we must negotiate. Name your terms.”

“The monitoring on my location and activities ended. My purchases unrestricted. My privacy restored,” he intoned instantly, emphasizing each consonant.

“Done,” replied Shacklebolt without hesitation.

Severus raised an eyebrow. He had apparently underestimated the Ministry’s desperation. “Should I have asked for more, then?”

“I knew what your terms would be, Severus, and I have already cleared them with the Wizengamot. The restrictions placed on you after the war were necessary to appease the populace, but I never believed them to be fair. You may also return to Hogwarts if you would like. Your freedoms would be entirely restored. Your life would be your own again.”

Severus mulled this possibility. After six years away from teaching, he wasn’t sure if the idea of returning appealed to him or not. But the point was, it would once again be his choice to make.

He drew himself to his full height. “I agree to your proposal. With the condition that if the girl dies or otherwise fails to perform her duty, I am absolved of all responsibility and still regain my freedoms. I will not be made to be responsible for things out of my control this time.”

Shacklebolt tilted his head to the side, looking weary. “Fine, Severus. Have it your way. But do try to keep her alive, please?”

Over the last six years, he’d wished a thousand times that Minerva and Sprout had left well enough alone in the Shrieking Shack. Why had they interfered? He had written his own end and was satisfied with it. But then it had been denied him, and he’d been reborn into a world where his fate was not his own anymore. 

First he was judged by his inferiors. People who had no idea what the word ‘sacrifice’ meant tried to paint him as unworthy. Angry and hurt, he refused to even defend himself at his own trial. It was children: Potter, Draco and the ever-annoying Granger that spoke in his defense. As if three children were going to sway anybody with actual power. When the day of sentencing arrived, the word ‘guilty’ was spoken, and he braced himself for Azkaban. 

As it turns out, that would have been better. At least Azkaban was honest. It didn’t pretend to be anything it was not.

No, he was told that he was sentenced to “time served”. That his time spent as a spy for the Order balanced against the lives he’d taken, or failed to save. But this too, was a lie.

Next they informed him that he’d been stripped of his position at Hogwarts. _Parents wouldn’t feel safe with a former Death Eater on the staff. I’m sure you understand._ The only home he’d ever known. Denied to him.

He made an attempt to make a new home. But every time he traveled somewhere out of his routine, he could expect to find Aurors in plainclothes tailing him. 

He made an attempt to focus on his brewing. But some Ministry stooge denied his requests for any ingredient more potent than a ginger root. 

He made an attempt to focus on research. But Minerva apologetically informed him that he was no longer allowed to visit the restricted section of the library. Or indeed, any library or shop.

In truth, he was not a free man, but a shackled one. And the dishonesty of it all was wearing on him. 

He was not a man that had friends or family. All he had were his interests and the pursuit of magical knowledge. With those taken from him, life had grown dim. Dimmer even than during the war.

It all led here. To freezing out of spite on a hilltop, recruited into a mad plot that would dominate his life for the next year. Rusitania. Who knew what new nonsense would be found there? But even so, there was hope. A possibility that he could build a real life of seclusion and study on the other side. Could he still assert his freedom if she didn’t show? He’d played his part, after all. That would be much preferred, on all sides.

_Crack!_

The telltale sound of apparition echoed from down the hill. Severus reluctantly looked down to see a woman, dressed in Muggle clothes, duffel slung over one shoulder, looking back up at him. As she realized that he was not going to come down to her, he saw her shoulders fall in a sigh and her feet began the trudge up the wet grass. 

This gave him some time to study her. His surprise at her appearance was sufficient to make him forget the wind for a moment. He had experienced this strange moment with other students before, meeting them in Diagon Alley a few years after graduation and finding that at first he did not recognize them. It was somehow startling to see a child become a fully realized adult. There was a profound sense of discombobulation until your perception of the person adapted. 

It was akin to hearing a complex passage in a song. When the song had finally resolved, one could look back and understand where all of those other notes were leading. Suddenly, Hermione Granger was a completed, resolved being. A contemporary, even. Her child-self faded into a reflective echo of the woman that stood before him.

Her long mane of brown hair was now streaked with lighter highlights, likely from time spent outside. She had pulled it into a thick, loose braid that was slung over her left shoulder, hanging nearly to her waist. Her face seemed slightly wider, her eyelashes longer, her upper lip slightly fuller, cheeks pinked by the cold. She was Hermione Granger and she was not. 

It was not just her appearance that was different. Her energy, too, was transformed. There was no vibrating insistence in her demeanor, no appearance of challenge or insistence in her countenance. Instead, she stood a meter from him, her hands poured into her pockets, her face looking sad and resigned, and she said nothing. Silence stretched between them. The wind arrived with another brutal gust, flipping up the tails of his coat and gently flicking escaped curls around her face.

“Miss Granger,” he said, nodding his head.

“Professor Snape,” she responded evenly. The voice was familiar at least.

“You’re late,” he said, suddenly remembering that he was feeling quite bitter about it.

“Yes,” she said. Her voice held no challenge or ire. Just simple acknowledgment. It flared his resentment.

“Yes? That’s all you have to say about wasting my time?”

She shrugged. “I may never return home again. I had to make arrangements.” 

He felt a familiar surge of irritation at that remark. _Entitled Gryffindor_. As if she was the only one having to completely upend their life to accommodate this mad scheme. He’d spent the last two days trying to pack, prepare his home to lay unoccupied for an extended period of time, and distill decades of hands-on espionage knowledge into a three day lesson plan. Not that she cared. _Ungrateful chit_.

Just as he was preparing an acerbic remark to this effect, he glanced more closely at her face. Her eyes were red, bloodshot and actively wet. He groaned internally. The only thing that would make the next hour less palatable is if she began to cry. So he did the only thing he could do: swallow his ire. Nothing was more repulsive to him than emotional outbursts and he didn’t want to trigger one. There would surely be time to dress her down later when she wasn’t on the brink of female hysteria.

“I take it that means that you have officially accepted the assignment then?” he asked, hoping for safer ground.

“I have,” she confirmed. “Not that I really had any choice in the matter.” 

He paused. Did she feel forced then? He had figured someone like Hermione Granger would be effusive about such an opportunity for exploration and adventure, no matter how ill-suited she was for it. But clearly he had read this wrong. He felt a strange need to seek clarification.

“If you do not wish to do this, it is not too late to decline. The task will not be easy.”

She met his eyes. Her irises were flecked with gold. “I don’t wish to do it. But I’m doing it anyway,” she said simply.

He considered this for a moment and then nodded. He understood and respected commitment to duty. 

“Would that we both were both free from the burden of conscience, Miss Granger.”

One side of her mouth quirked up at that. Less of a smile and more of a commiseration. “Is that why you agreed to this?” she asked. “Conscience?”

“No,” he answered honestly. He braced for the inevitable interrogation as to his true motives, but none came. She did not demand elaboration. She simply accepted. 

Was this the same Hermione Granger, truly? Where had her pernicious curiosity fled to?

“Time is short and I am freezing,” she said instead. “Let’s move this along.”

Severus felt off-balance. Ruthless efficiency was usually his wheelhouse. But he extended his arm anyway. “You will have to side along.” She threaded her long, delicate fingers through the gap between his arm and his torso and grasped him firmly. He swung in a ferocious circle and in a blink they were standing under a black wrought iron gate, marking the entrance to his red brick, georgian home.

He watched her eyes widen as she took in the front hedge rows. “Expecting something else?”

“This isn’t Cokeworth.”

“Stunning observation,” he said sarcastically. “No, my familial home was burned down by an arsonist during my trial.”

Her dark eyes clouded with sympathy. He turned and barreled down the walk before she had the chance to give it voice. 

Morry met them at the door, her small frame shivering with excitement. He rarely had overnight guests, and certainly none of the female persuasion. The anticipation of Hermione’s arrival had thrown his house elf into a frenzy of annoying preparations. Yet another nuisance to grit his teeth against.

“May Morry take your coat and bag, Miss Hermione Granger?” 

Hermione smiled down at the elf. “Are you certain? I can manage it myself,” she said.

“Oh, Morry would be most honored if you would allow her,” the elf insisted.

“All right then,” she said, handing them over. Morry snapped out of the entry.

With a sharp flick of his head that indicated Hermione should follow, he began working his way to the library with her padding a few steps behind him. He could feel her eyes soaking in all of his things. Judging him, no doubt. He quickened his pace, intending to give her as little opportunity to gawk as possible.

“I would like to establish a few house rules up front. First, as you can see, I have house elves. I am not interested in your opinions on their… _situation_ here. You are to keep all thoughts on that matter to yourself.”

He peeked back at her, expecting to see her face strain and redden at this attempted censorship, but there was nothing.

“Do you have nothing to say about that, Miss Granger?”

She shrugged. A frequent gesture that was becoming irritating. “Not particularly, Professor. You won’t hear anything from me about it. That’s not really my thing anymore.”

It wasn’t her _thing_? Could somebody be so fundamentally changed? Her passions so unfixed that she lost her convictions in a matter of moments? It disconcerted him. Her zeal for equality was a reliable touchstone. Something he could mock and assert power over her with. Finding her ambivalent was a change, and he wasn’t certain it was one for the better. 

For a moment he wanted to ask her what her thing was these days, but he thought better of it. They arrived at the library, its ornately trimmed walls painted in a green so dark it was very nearly black, covered in shelves stacked high with dusty leather volumes. He reached the desk and then spun to face her. “Your room is upstairs. First on the left. There is a washroom attached. That is the only room upstairs you are to enter.” He paused so she could nod in acknowledgment.

“We have three days, Miss Granger. Three days before you must begin your journey. Three days to prepare you for what will inevitably be a grueling, thankless task. I am not going to coddle you. What you’re undertaking is dangerous and unlikely to end well. So we will make maximum use of the preparation time that we have. We will break only for meals and five hours rest in the evenings. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. I’m used to cramming. Or I was back in school. It won’t be a problem.”

“Then let us begin,” he said, drawing his wand. A few quick flicks of his wrist shifted two of his bookcases outwards, revealing a wall behind that he’d already carefully prepared.

Hermione drew closer, eyes narrowed, scanning all of of the cuttings of newspapers affixed to it. He waited, somewhat impatiently, for her to speak.

“This…” she started, her eyes flicking rapidly from piece to piece, her voice somewhat awed. “This is…”

He grew tired of waiting. “Not your personal scrapbook, Miss Granger, I assure you. But it is a comprehensive set of every publication that has ever been made referencing you. From _The Daily Prophet_ to the even less savory paparazzi rags. Why have I gathered these?”

“Because you’re stalking me?” she said, grinning.

He rolled his eyes. “Try. Again.”

One of her hands reached out to touch an article with a particularly unflattering photo of her as a girl, her hair frizzed around her face, which was fixed in a sour scowl. _Harry Potter’s Muggle Friend - Bad Influence?_ , read the headline. 

“Is this the part where you test me to see if I can withstand torture?” she asked dryly.

Her flippancy dug at him. He needed to have her complete focus for this. And the best way he knew to clarify focus was through fear. So he put on his lowest, most ominous voice, leaned down, and spoke straight into her ear. 

“Miss Granger, I assure you that when I begin torturing you, you will require no clarification on that point.”

He could sense her body stiffen under him. Mission accomplished. He stepped back, glad he could still draw that reaction.

“This collage represents the entirety of your history in the press. From what we can ascertain, news publications seems to be the primary source for Rusitania about the outside world. They have a history of asking after supplies mentioned in the paper, and now…people.”

“Could they also have spies outside the wards, though?”

“The Ministry analysis is that it is not likely. The ward monitoring station would pick up any travel. So why are we looking at this Miss Granger?”

“Because it’s everything Rusitania likely knows about me.”

“Correct.” Finally, they were getting somewhere.

“Why does that matter, though?”

He suppressed a sigh. “You’re quicker than this, Miss Granger. Is everything written about you in the press accurate?”

She pressed her nails deep into her palms. “Not even close,” she spat out. 

“So Rusitania’s intelligence about you is inaccurate. Which is something we can use to our advantage. Lesson one: _Personae_.” At this, he flicked his wrist towards the blackboard on the opposing side of the room and the word appeared in neat script. 

“Your personae is your cover identity,” he continued. “It will protect you as surely as a polyjuiced disguise will. You will adopt and play-act a character version of yourself. You will use that role to play into your opponent’s mistaken assumptions about you. What can you tell me about this Hermione Granger that we know from the press?”

Her eyes flickered over the clippings so quickly, he suspected that she had each one memorized, an account of their inaccuracies and faults immediately filed away. She cleared her throat. “Um. Well. The newspaper version of me is young. Brave. Intelligent. They got that right at least.”

She certainly had a high opinion of herself. Enough that Severus felt the reflex kick in to take her down a peg. But he resisted. She was smart. Empirically. So was he. Where was the sense of either of them faking humility about it? Would he truly prefer that? No. So instead, he nodded. “What else?”

Her eyes flicked to the article about her wishing to liberate house elves. “Idealistic. Anti-establishment. Troublemaker. Naive, perhaps?”

“And are you those things?”

“A little. Certainly not as much as I used to be, or as much as is depicted here.” 

“What else?” he said again.

“The fact that I am muggle-born is mentioned a lot.” Her voice quavered when she said this. A sensitive spot. He tucked that knowledge away for later.

“And what does that imply? Other than the obvious.” 

She was thoughtful a moment. “Perhaps that I don’t care much for traditions? Also that I lack significant magical connections?”

“Good. What else? How do they speak about your personal life?”

She blushed slightly. “Well…if the papers are to be believed, I’m an absolute trollop. Cavorting and flirting with every eligible wizard from here to America.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “That isn’t true?”

She stomped a foot indignantly. “ _Certainly_ not. The idea is laughable.” 

Seeing an angry furrow appear between her eyebrows and her fists clenching gave Severus some comfort. The witch still had some fight in her after all. “Of course,” he said breezily, the implication thick that he didn’t actually believe her, to see if he could increase her fire. It worked. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes bugged with injustice, reminiscent of the younger version of herself. Inwardly, he grinned with victory. Better for her to be mad than cowed, if he was going to get her through this. Still, they were going to have to work on making her reactions less predictable.

“And yet, we can use this _mistaken_ notion as well.” He gestured to the brown velvet couch in the bay window, indicating she should be seated. She took her place on it, spine defiantly rigid while it attempted to swallow her into its comfortable depths. Severus perched across from her in a dark green leather wingback chair, which perfectly matched the walls.

“Part of espionage is playing a role. Your foes must believe that they understand you. That you have predictable motives and want predictable things. And you must help reinforce those beliefs by playing into them. They already believe you to be a flirty, intelligent idealist with a vast hunger for reform. If we give that to them, they will think less to question your other activities.”

She frowned. “I’m not sure I would know the first thing about pretending to be that person.”

“In a manner of speaking, you are already that person. All you need to do is to lean hard into aspects of yourself that are already there, while holding the rest back for yourself.”

“I understand what you’re saying, Professor. I just don’t understand how I would do it.”

“You decide that there is a problem, Miss Granger, and you make it your personal campaign to fix it.”

“What problem would that be?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s what you’ll establish when you’re on the ground. Perhaps you’ll take on the cause of reintegrating Rusitania into the modern wizarding world. Perhaps you’ll find some injustice in their culture once you are there that you feel you need to right. Whatever the cause you take up, you remain loud about it, be meddlesome regarding it, and you have a suitable cover story for the rest of your activities.”

“Is that what you did?” she asked suddenly. “You played the role of the Death Eater? Play acted as your younger self? The Severus Snape everybody expected from the past? So everyone around you could be certain of your motives?” She sat back, as if stunned by this revelation. “That must have been exhausting for so many years.” 

He felt his lip sneer upwards. What did she know of it? The endless loneliness. The sense of not knowing who you actually are after playing the role for so long. Making friends you knew you would ultimately betray. The years that passed with only a single fading touchstone to aid you through them. No. Her open expression of sympathy was repugnant. This young woman had no idea what he’d been through. To think that she could somehow validate his experience was nonsense. 

“My tutelage is not an open invitation for you to pry into my personal history,” he said coldly. 

“Of course not,” she quickly said. “I am sorry.” The emphasis she put on the latter word combined with the look she flashed him seemed to imply that she was offering an apology not just for her rude inquiry but on behalf of all wizarding kind for what he’d been through. The pity in it burned him.

“Recitation, if you please,” he said, crossing his arms, indicating that this line of questioning was over.

A confused look passed over her face. “Oh. Of the lesson, you mean? Sure. Personae. I need to play a role to make myself predictable. The role I should play should capitalize on any assumptions they’ve made about me from press coverage. I shall pretend to be smart, idealistic and meddlesome. I will take up a cause and try to convince those around me this is my primary focus. I will…flirt…if necessary.” The last sentence she spat out as if it were distasteful to her. “Although I’d rather not. I can pull off the idealistic thing but I am not a natural flirter.”

His eyes roamed over her. The long lashes, the petite figure, the wild hair. She was certainly attractive enough to pull off flirting as effective strategy. But if it wasn’t natural for her, done poorly it had the ability to undermine her entire facade. He toyed briefly with the idea of testing her skills, but the entire notion of forcing Miss Granger to flirt with him was just insulting to them both.

“I am not the proper person to teach you that particular art, nor have I accommodated time for it our lesson plans. If you are that certain that you cannot pull it off, then omit it from your personae.”

She nodded and relaxed in her posture slightly, seemingly relieved. 

“Moving on to our next subject…”

* * *

Back on his home turf, with the firm foundation of a lesson plan under his feet, Severus was feeling more at ease. He spent the rest of the morning drilling her on concealment and illusion charms. They broke briefly for tea and sandwiches supplied by Morry. Then he performed a holistic review of her defensive spells and corrected the oversights in her training, of which there were many. 

It had been some time since he had donned the role of teacher, but he found that he slipped back into the role easily, like sliding on well-worn dragonhide boots. He had forgotten the comfort the job offered. For a man like Severus, there was pleasure to be in a position of authority over inferiors. Nobody could taunt him, talk back or mock him in his classroom. And if they tried, he could legally make their lives misery and revel in every second of it.

Not that there was much need to do so with Miss Granger. Even as an adult, she was a model student — her only flaw being an over-earnestness to demonstrate mastery of the material. But this habit which had been an annoyance in a crowded classroom proved less so in a one-on-one exchange. If he asked a question, she was the only one there to answer it, after all. As she grasped concepts quickly, his lessons moved swiftly and naturally from lecture to practice to dialogue. 

It was clear, more than ever, that regardless of circumstance, Miss Granger loved to learn and could pick things up quickly. The exhausted, defeated look he’d been minorly concerned about at the start had been replaced with a variety of fresh expressions as he shared his knowledge: curiosity, realization, skepticism, and his favorite: rapt interest.

Not that all of the instruction was given without resistance. After demonstrating the 17th of 19 concealment charms he expected her to have mastered, she looked up at him and said “Professor, I covered most of this in school. Shouldn’t we be more focused on…I don’t know. Spy stuff?”

“Spy…stuff,” he repeated dryly. “Tell me, Miss Granger, what do you suppose that entails?”

“Sneaking around? Listening in on conversations you shouldn’t hear? Breaking into safes and stealing important documents?”

He sniffed. “You watch too many Muggle movies. Engaging in any of those activities is more likely to get you killed than produce any useful intelligence.”

“Well then, what _am_ I going to be doing?”

He sighed. “Staying alive, primarily. Which means that you need to stay useful to them. Gain their trust. Do their bidding. They need to see you as one of them, whether you are or not. And once you are one of them, you will learn what you need to know. No sneaking around required.”

She considered this. “So what you’re saying is that I’m meant to make friends with the Rusitanians.”

“Friends? Don’t be ludicrous. You’re not being sent off to play tiddlywinks and quidditch. Make no mistake. These people would not have asked for you if they did not intend to use you in some fashion. Your goal is to make them believe that you have mutually cooperative agendas and beliefs.”

“And if they are awful people who believe terrible things?”

The image flashed in his mind before he could stop it. Charity Burbage, hung over the banquet table, bleeding and begging him for her life. Bile began to rise in his throat, his legs began to tremble, and he shuffled the memory backwards, shoving it deep behind his mental barriers and slamming the door shut on it. 

He stood stunned for a moment. That had not happened to him in quite some time. And while his mind was free of the effects, it always took the body a short period to catch up.

“Professor?” she asked again, looking concerned. “Here, let me get you some water”. Damn, he must have paled.

He put up a hand to stay her and slumped into his wingback chair. “I’m fine,” he gritted out. But she appeared over his shoulder with a glass and he begrudgingly accepted it, taking a few sips.

When he looked up, she was studying him. She nearly whispered her next words. “It’s going to be awful, isn’t it?” 

He spoke gently, as he sensed his spell had spooked her. “It is possible. Three hundred years isolated without a single person escaping or a leak of any kind? Rusitania is either a utopia or something far worse.” She gave a small nod, her eyes wide and far away, as if he had confirmed her worst fears.

Feeling recovered, he placed his glass on the desk and rose to his full height. “What will be difficult about your task is not stealing secrets but keeping them. How you truly feel about these people, their actions, your mission. You will have much to hide, both physical and emotional. And thus we drill concealment and illusion.”

She looked as if she might say something, but blessedly she seemed to swallow her objection and just nodded her head. “What’s next?” she asked.

The day flew by, and before he knew it, Morry had appeared, informing them that dinner was ready.

It wasn’t until they were seated at his dining table in front of plates of roasted partridge and caramelized carrots that Severus realized he’d misstepped. He usually took meals alone wherever he was presently working. With Miss Granger here, he’d felt compelled to play proper host and sit at the dining table with her. But after Morry served and they began to eat, an awkward silence loomed through the room, broken up only by the ambient sounds of silverware knocking against plates and chewing. 

He didn’t dare glance at her. He had no desire for small talk and no lessons planned for the moment. Without either of those weapons, he had no idea how to navigate the present situation. It was for the best if he didn’t see her expression, laced with expectations or discontent.

So when, it came, the sudden appearance of her voice startled him slightly.

“I like to read when I eat. I brought a few volumes on dragons. Thought they might be useful to brush up on, since I’m headed to the home of the mythical dragonlords and all. Would you mind?” 

His relief was tangible, but he tried to keep his face neutral. “Not at all. I also read at meals. What did you bring?”

“ _From Egg to Inferno_. Also _Men Who Love Dragons Too Much_ and _Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland_. I’ve read them before but it doesn’t hurt to brush up when you’re headed to dragon country.”

“I have _Dragon Species of Europe and Asia_ in my library. That is likely a better choice given the circumstances. I also have a few volumes of early Rusitanian history I had Miranda send over. I had planned to review them myself, but you may find them useful as well.”

“You were going to review them?” she asked, oddly surprised.

“Of course. If I am to be of use to you, I cannot remain ignorant. I must learn as much as I can. We cannot yet know what information may be helpful in keeping you alive.”

He risked a glance at her and immediately wished he hadn’t. Her dark eyes were fixed on him and glassy with fluid threatening to brim over. What on earth was she so emotional about? Was it his subtle reminder that she might not be safe? Likely not, as they’d been speaking about that all afternoon without any threat of tears. No, her reaction seemed to be more about him intending to read a few obvious texts. How was that provoking a near breakdown? He was once again feeling concerned about her rationality. And feeling concern was making him feel irritated.

Tomorrow they must start work on occlumency in earnest, he decided. Having more control over her emotional expressions was imperative, not just for the mission, but also if Severus was going to survive the next two days.

“Thank you, Professor. For the books. For helping me prepare. For doing reading yourself. Whatever your motive in doing this, I do appreciate it.”

He snorted derisively. “There is no need to thank me for doing the absolute bare minimum, Miss Granger.”

She chuckled at that, slightly bitterly. Again, her reaction surprised him. “It’s definitely not the bare minimum. What we covered today has already been valuable. Trust me, you could be doing a lot less.”

He wondered at that remark. He supposed he could do less. Fail to read, fail to adequately prepare her. But what was the sense in doing a job poorly? It went against his very nature. 

Her expectations were confoundingly low. Had the company she kept during the war been so disappointing? Surely the Order… 

But no. She wasn’t much with the Order, was she? Spent most of the time on the run with Potter and the Weasley boy. One supremely stubborn and lazy, and the other an absolute half-wit. It couldn’t come as a shock that she was blown away by any level of adequacy and competence. She’d probably had to shoulder the full burden of research, planning and orchestration for the entirety of their efforts during the war. Severus felt a buzz of irritation just thinking about it.

In the midst of that irritation, a curious feeling blossomed in him. One of solidarity. They were two competent wizards, over-used and under-appreciated by those around them. And allowing themselves to be used once again. 

Would he be another in a line of those who wished to make use of her talents and dispose of her? 

But no, it wasn’t the same at all, was it? Miss Granger was well-liked. She had friends. She had a family, from what he recalled. Muggle, but still alive. She had the support system Severus never did. They were not the same. And it was not his responsibility to shield her. All he needed was to get through dinner with minimal awkwardness.

“Morry,” he said, and the elf appeared. “Would you fetch the stack of books on my desk?”

“Certainly, Master Snape.” The elf eyed Hermione and her misty eyes with concern. “Is mistress enjoying her meal?”

Hermione forced a smile. “I am. It’s absolutely delicious.”

Morry hadn’t received a compliment like that in probably decades and was nearly apoplectic with joy. Severus rolled his eyes. He was going to have to severely lower expectations again after Miss Granger’s departure. 

The books retrieved, they spent the rest of the meal pouring over them in comfortable silence. On occasion, Hermione would read a passage of possible significance aloud, they would discuss the implications, and then they would immediately fall back to their studies. He grew so comfortable that for a moment, he forgot she was there. And when she made a light clanging sound to set her goblet back on the table after a sip of water, he looked up in surprise at her presence. Catching the shift of his head, she looked up as well, their eyes met, and she gave him a small smile. Then her full focus was pulled back into the book. 

_At least I can tolerate her_. With that knowledge perhaps the next year would be less loathsome than he had imagined.

After dinner he drilled her on scenarios around personae. How she’d react to different situations with the cover role she crafted for herself. She did well, providing natural responses and improvising in surprising but effective ways. But every lie and uncomfortable truth she spoke was written plainly on her face. Occlumency was going to be a necessary discipline for her to learn. He just hoped she had some aptitude for it.

Just after midnight, they retired to their rooms. And at half past, he heard a wail and then a crash.

After all of these years, Severus was still a light sleeper, and was up with his wand lighting the dark room almost instantly. Navigating down his dark hallway, he reached the closed door of Hermione’s room and hovered there, listening. There was nothing. Had he imagined it? He could open the door and check on her, but the professor in him had some fairly traditional views on bounding in on young women in their bedrooms in the middle of the night.

_Auditis_ , he spoke softly to amplify his hearing. And he heard it. The ragged, panicked breathing crossed with whimpers.

“Morry,” he said quietly, and his elf was instantly there in the hallway, looking bleary-eyed but expectant. “Miss Granger may be in need of assistance. Can you check on her and see if she needs anything?”

Morry’s face contorted with conflict as she looked towards the door, then back at him. “Mistress shouldn’t be disturbed in her private quarters. Unless there is an emergency.”

Severus sighed. “I heard a scream,” he whispered as emphatically as he could. “Just go check on her.”

Learning of the scream was apparently enough to overcome Morry’s moral qualms about etiquette breaches, and she was gone in a flash. Severus listened with his amplified hearing, but could only hear the telltale noise void that meant someone had cast _quietus_ on the other end.

It was several minutes before Morry reappeared, looking sheepish. “Well?” he demanded. 

“Mistress is fine. Just broke a vase. The mistress said that she will pay to replace it.” The elf was nervously picking at her fingers in a way that made him think she wasn’t telling the entire truth.

“I don’t care about the blasted vase. Why was she making that bloody racket and waking the entire house?” said Severus in a full voice.

A portrait of his great-great uncle on the wall lit a lamp and rasped out “I could ask the same of you.”

“Oh shut it, Marcus,” he spat back. “Fine. If she is done making a nuisance of herself, I am returning to bed.” He stomped back down the hallway to his room and let the door slam loudly.

He lay back in bed with force, flicking his own _Quietus_ at the door and extinguishing his wand. What had happened in there? What could have possibly caused her to cry out so? Perhaps she had cut herself. If so, should he go back and offer assistance? 

_ENOUGH_ , he shouted into his thoughts. _Be rational._ There was no place for curiosity here. He was not Miss Granger’s parent or friend. No good could come of prying in her private business. She was an adult and could handle herself. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm himself by thinking about what his life would be like a year from now. Productive. Quiet. Solitary. The perfect life.


	4. Elicitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously:_
> 
> _Hermione is disowned by her parents after restoring their memories. She retires to a quiet life until she is abruptly summoned by the Ministry of Magic to spy on the isolationist wizarding state of Rusitania, whom no one has heard from in 300 years._
> 
> _Severus Snape struck a deal with the Ministry to be Hermione’s handler in exchange for his freedoms. With three days to prepare, Severus spent the first day instructing Hermione in the formulation of her cover identity. A comfortable instructional relationship was established._
> 
> _But a mysterious crash and cry behind Hermione’s door in the middle of the night left Severus wondering if all is going as well as it seemed._

There was a particularly peculiar clock in Professor Snape’s office. Most of the time, it appeared to be nothing more than a thin wooden dowel, jutting out from the wall at head’s height. But at the top of each hour, a new brightly colored songbird would alight on the perch, peal out a melodious bird call, and repeat it by the number of the hour. Hermione found herself increasingly distracted from her lessons by it. It seemed far too whimsical of an object to be possessed by someone like the Professor. The inherent contradiction of it puzzled her.

Several hours had passed since dinner when a new bird materialized from thin air: a glossy black raven, intelligence shining from his eyes. He cocked his head to the side, seemingly studying her, then offered his song. Hermione counted the caw! sounds. Twelve. It was midnight. The raven, job done, fluttered away, fading into nothingness as it did so.

Snape rose from his chair and smoothed the wrinkles from his waistcoat. “We will resume at 5am. Do not be late,” he said. Then he unceremoniously walked out of the room.

Not a “Good work, today!” or a “Have a good night,” or even a “Sleep well, Miss Granger”. His duty done, he evaporated, just like the raven in the clock. Leaving Hermione to attempt to find a bedroom that she hadn’t yet seen.

She slumped down into the chocolate velvet sofa, which was all too happy to envelop her. It was so soft and squishy and comfortable, hugging her body warmly. Why had she had spent all day resisting its charms, trying to appear attentive? Bugger it, maybe she’d just sleep here tonight. _Can’t be late if I never even leave the room_ , she thought impudently.

Despite her reflexive pushback against being treated like a child who couldn’t cast a wake-up spell, the day had not been anywhere near as bad as Hermione expected. And that was something of a small mercy. 

The Professor seemed different than she remembered. Of course, he wasn’t entirely a different person. There was still the sneering, the defensiveness, the utter refusal to offer any sort of praise or positive reinforcement. All of these things she expected, of course. But she had also expected more casual cruelty. Instead, she found him…purposeful. Helpful. Lacking in sentiment, certainly, and lacking even more so in people skills. But she’d found his company interesting. Stimulating, even. She’d forgotten how much she liked to learn. How enjoyable it was to have a conversation with somebody who could keep up with her. 

She wondered, vaguely, what the difference was. Had his cruel demeanor in school been an act? Part of his Personae needed to play his role in the war? Had something changed him as a person? Or was it her that was different, perceiving him entirely differently than she did before she knew he was working on the side of good? 

And then over dinner, she’d been shocked when she fully realized how much he’d prepared. It was just so different than what she was used to. Over the years, she’d come to understand that if she wasn’t going to do something, it wasn’t going to happen. She’d been the one neck-deep in books doing the work, figuring out the next steps, cracking the current puzzle. Those late nights in the library were always spent alone. But here was somebody who knew what they were doing, proactively helping. Could it be that this time she needn’t stumble around alone in the dark?

She yawned and stretched her stiff muscles. These questions wouldn’t be answered tonight.

Reluctantly, she rose up, resisting the pull of the velvet sofa whose tug was at least twice that of normal gravity. She could not resist taking the long way to the staircase, threading through a few rooms on her way. She found the tidy kitchen, a sunroom filled with interesting plant specimens, a pantry filled to the brim with more potion ingredients than food, the dining room where they had eaten earlier, and a cozy reading room. A staircase in the kitchen led down to a basement, where a quick sniff indicated the likely presence of a potions lab. 

Snape’s house was tidy and a bit spartan. Nearly every wall had shelving space for books, which she certainly had no quarrel with. And while decorative touches were somewhat meager and color selection somewhat dark, every furniture piece was richly chosen. The tables were made of rich walnut and almond, and had recently been oiled. When there was a rug, it had a buttery soft quality that your feet sank straight through. His upholstery was blanketed in dark velvets and supple leathers. 

His old home having burned, it seemed likely he had selected every piece in this home himself. It was another Snape enigma. He had put a terrible amount of care into his choices, prioritizing unexpected things like comfort. For some reason she had a hard time reconciling the idea of it with what she knew of him. It was another crisp reminder that she did not know the man well.

The main floor thoroughly snooped, she climbed the stairs on tiptoe and entered the first room on the left. It contained a simple wooden bed with white linens and an attached washroom outfitted in black and white checkered tile. 

Hermione splashed cold water from the tap onto her face and looked into the mirror. The dark circles under her eyes and her drawn expression were not doing her any favors. She tried moving her features around, attempting to rearrange them into a placement that would better reflect her adopted Personae. What face would a staunchly curious idealist wear? She tried raising her jaw, pouting her mouth and tilting her head. There was something in that bearing, perhaps. It was close. But her eyes. They were too hollowed out to be convincing.

She let them flutter shut. When they opened again, her face was cold. Her eyes filled with resentment. 

Why was this happening to her? Again? Why did it seem to be her destiny to clean up the messes of others? To put energy into something she benefited nothing from for people who cared nothing for her well-being? Who was she kidding? She was not in any state to pull this off. Why had she ever agreed to this?

A swirling bubble of fear and rage rose up inside of her. Her fingers went white, clutching the side of the sink, as it threatened to overwhelm her. Panic was imminent and her tools had never seemed more useless. What she wanted was release. To make that bubble of ascending emotion shoot straight out of her body.

Spying a large green vase on the windowsill filled with dried flowers, she grabbed it, threw it into the bedroom, and screamed.

For just an instant, the resulting crash as it shattered on the bedroom wall was a tremendously satisfying event. The outlet of forceful energy felt productive and fresh. The bubbling inside of her eased. But then another wave followed in the wake of anger, that of raw sadness. Regret slammed into her as she inspected the broken pieces. What was she doing? This wasn’t her. She collapsed into the shrapnel on the floor and began to weep.

It was the intrusion of Morry that broke her self-indulgent fit. Morry appeared at a distance, clearly frazzled and uncertain. “Master heard a scream. Is Mistress Granger in need of assistance?”

Shit. In her fit of melodramatic pique she’d forgotten to silence the room. She grabbed her wand from the bed and launched a vicious _Quietus_ in the direction of the doorway, cringing simultaneously that Snape was likely outside listening to her outburst.

“I’m fine, Morry. I…slipped in the dark and knocked over this vase,” she said sniffling, scurrying to her feet, desperately trying to appear normal.

“Is Mistress Granger hurt?”

“No, no. Fine. Just…embarrassed,” she answered honestly.

_Reparo_ , she intoned next, as she watched all of the pieces of the vase fly back together. She picked it up and examined it. A second year spell she’d mastered in first year, and yet somehow in her frazzled state, she’d screwed it up. The pieces were misaligned at awkward angles, leaving visible cracks in the surface.

Repaired objects were never entirely the same as their originals, truly. But usually not this bad. “The Professor isn’t particularly attached to this vase, is he?” she asked.

Morry’s expression shifted from uncertain to eager as she identified a potential task. “I could ask him, Mistress. Wait here.”

“No!” Hermione said swiftly, putting up her hands to stop her from disappearing. “Just…tell him I am sorry. That it was an accident and I’ll replace it. Whatever the cost.” What use did she have for money the next year anyway? Let him buy a whole room full of vases. 

“Can Morry help in any other way?”

She rose from the floor. “No, thank you Morry. I’ll be going to sleep now.” And she would. Or at least try.

* * *

The robin was in the middle of his fifth repeat of his twinkling melody when Snape entered the room. Hermione was seated on the couch, sipping at a cup of coffee she’d already had Morry refill three times. 

He strode to the desk. And said nothing. He was staring at her, eyes stern. She decided to stare back expectantly, one eyebrow raised. But still he did not speak. 

The simmering tension in the room was becoming too much. “What?” she threw at him. “What did I do now?”

“Why do you believe you did something?” he said somewhat aloofly.

“Because you’re staring. And we’re not starting our lessons. Does this have something to do with last night? You’re angry with me, aren’t you?”

“Why would I be angry?” he drawled.

Why would he…? Oh the impudence of this man. Served her right for thinking him changed yesterday. “Oh, you know very well. You’re angry that I stumbled in the dark and broke your vase and interrupted your precious sleep. I apologize. I am sorry.”

He furrowed his brow at her and remained silent. What did that mean? Did he not believe her? 

_He knows_ , she realized. _He knows I didn’t trip. He knows I broke it intentionally._ She didn’t know how he knew, but she knew he knew.

“Fine,” she muttered. “I threw the damn vase. I was pissed and I wanted to break something. And then I was upset and fucked up the repair spell. It was wrong and I am sorry. Are you happy now?”

There was a beat where her admission hung in the air between them. She braced herself for his anger. 

“Why did you tell me that?” he said instead, his voice calm.

“Why did I…” Hermione repeated in disbelief. “Because you knew! You sat here and made it seem like…”

“I believe I did not actually say anything. So I could not have made it _seem_ like anything. Indeed, I do not care about your private nocturnal activities at all. A vase is broken: the circumstances leading to that outcome do not particularly matter to me. So why did you tell me?” 

Hermione saw red. What sort of sick game was he playing? “That was…you tricked me! Into revealing something private. Do you get off on humiliating me or something?”

“On the contrary, Miss Granger. That was a lesson. In Elicitation.” As the word appeared in neat cursive script on the board, Hermione felt the blood leave her forehead and head for her cheeks. 

Damn it. Snape wasn’t trying to trap her. He was trying to _teach_ her. This was a lesson and she’d made a mistake. Several of them. She need to calm down and get control of herself. She swallowed and tried to breathe. 

“Now. If we’re done with the histrionics? Tell me what your assignment is.”

Hermione sighed. “To infiltrate Rusitania. Send information back to the Ministry, via you, on what is happening there and whether there is a threat.”

“And how do you expect to achieve that?”

“Sir?” she said, her head still spinning.

“How are you going to get that information?” he clarified.

“Well…,” she said, stalling, trying to gather herself. “Some information will just come from observation. We don’t know anything about the place after all. I should be able to provide names of key players, how their government is structured, information about their culture and their magical abilities, just by being physically present.”

“And what of the information they don’t want you to know? What about the things they wish to conceal from you? How will you learn that?” he challenged.

She paused. “I’m not sure, honestly.”

He leaned back against his desk and laced his fingers together. “During the war, when you needed information, how did you obtain it?”

“I guess we would just pop under Harry’s invisibility cloak and eavesdrop on people.”

He rolled his eyes. “A horribly brute force and _risky_ way of acquiring intelligence. No, if we are to get you through this alive, we must help you embrace more subtle means of collecting information.”

Hermione frowned at the board, trying to access the word in her encyclopaedic head. “Elicitation isn’t a discipline of magic that I’m familiar with, sir.”

His eyebrows knitted together tightly. “Did I perform a spell on you to acquire your confession? It’s not magic, it’s psychology. Once you have mastered the principles of elicitation, you will be able to get people to just tell you, all sorts of unbelievable things, no magic required whatsoever.”

“Pardon me for being skeptical sir, but that seems unlikely. Why would somebody ever just volunteer secret information?”

“Why indeed? Surely you did not want to tell me what happened last night, but you did. Why do you think that is?”

“Because you’re a right bastard.”

His lips turned up at that, more leer than smile. “That I am, Miss Granger. Worse than you would even believe.” His voice was low and drawled with patient slowness. In response, her skin pimpled all over with gooseflesh. Again. It was just like what had happened to her the day previous, when he had whispered into her ear about torturing her. Her body was sensing something in those moments and alerting her. Danger, probably. But the tingle that played across her arms and legs didn’t feel like a warning. It felt…anticipatory. Excited. Was Snape dangerous? Certainly. But she was also equally certain that he would not actually harm her. His threats were toothless. It was another game of some sort. Perhaps another lesson even.

Damn her traitorous body, always having the most inappropriate reactions to a situation. Panic when nothing called for it, and excitement at the most inappropriate moments. _Bad body_ , she chided silently. 

“But that isn’t why you told me, is it? Swallow your injury for the moment and think it through. I did not coerce you into giving me the story, you offered it to me freely. Why?”

Why _did_ she do it? It wasn’t Snape’s business after all. But something within her had felt compelled to open up to him. The curiosity the question provoked momentarily stilled her. 

“Guilt was a factor, I think. I felt bad for what I did. And then for some reason, I thought you already knew.” Snape nodded and wanded _Guilt and_ Assumed Knowledge onto the board.

“Your authority was a part of it also. You were my teacher at one point, after all, and the nature of this…arrangement makes me fall into old roles. As a student it’s wrong to keep anything from authority figures.”

“I seem to recall that not being much of an issue for you while in school,” he said wryly, but then wanded _Deference to Authority_ on the board. “Anything else?” he asked. 

“I thought…no. That’s all,” said Hermione. Her final thought was too shameful to be said out loud. And she certainly didn’t want to say it to him.

“Clearly that is not all. Say it. This is an academic study in the unappealing tendencies of humankind. There is no place for embarrassment.”

Really she just didn't want to give him the satisfaction. But she owed it to the integrity of the exercise. “A part of me - a very small part - thought that maybe you actually wanted to know. To help me. Or offer support or something. Which was stupid of me, I know.” She felt her cheeks pink furiously at the idea and prepared herself for a dressing down.

But the expected sneer did not come. Not even a twitch passed over his face. He stood like stone, frustratingly unreadable. “We aren’t here to judge your motivations, Miss Granger,” he said. “Only to analyze them. Your instincts are very human, and we can learn from that.” He pointed at the board and _Desire for Validation_ appeared on the list.

“In truth,” he continued, “there are not very many individuals on this Earth, magical or Muggle, who are good at keeping secrets. Secrets are a burden to most people, and since most people are weak, they require help carrying those burdens. As a result, secrets have a way of wanting to be let out in ways that are perceived as safe or harmless. You’ve supplied four reasons people may use to justify unburdening themselves. We will review another fourteen.” 

Feeling on firmer ground, she nodded, and they dove in.

* * *

“How would you elicit from Headmistress Mcgonnagall?” Snape asked.

“Appeal to her sympathies. Ask for a favor. Perhaps bait her with confidential information if that doesn’t work.”

“Fine. From Harry Weasley?”

“Hmm. I would probably appeal to his curiosity. Express mutual interest and ask leading questions.”

“It could work, but I think you could do better.”

Hermione propped her chin on her fist, thinking. “The ‘Can you top this?’ strategy of telling a tall tale he needed to top could work.”

Snape nodded. “The man does love to talk. But if you’re looking to get specific information from someone like him, your approach might need to be more direct. I was thinking the ‘oblique reference’ technique might be a better idea.”

Hermione snapped her fingers. “Of course. Otherwise you’re liable to get off track. Appeal to his natural curiosity by dropping a cryptic comment in the general subject area I’m hoping to gather information on, and let his area of resulting conversation do the heavy lifting for you.”

“Excellent. Now Harry Potter.” Snape couldn’t suppress a scowl, even as he said the name.

Hermione waved a hand. “Oh that one’s easy. Harry responds to flattery or criticism, depending on what mood he’s in. Read the room right, he’ll tell you everything.”

The crook of Snape’s mouth fluttered at that, seemingly pleased by the answer. Hermione watched as it passed, fascinated that she was starting to be able to read his expressions. While his negative emotions dominated his visage most of the time, pleasure and approval often crept in as microexpressions, subtle and restrained but still present.

“It seems you’re ready for a challenge,” he said, his mouth still crooked. “Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione swallowed loudly and ran through the list of elicitation types they’d covered. None of them felt quite right. Suddenly, an idea popped into her head. “Seduce him,” she said quickly, before she could talk herself out of it. 

Snape frowned slightly at that, then recovered and perched on the side of his desk. “That was not a technique we covered. Explain.”

“Draco is contained,” she started, feeling nervous. “He instinctively protects private information and he’s too smart to fall for any of the other traps. And he hates me, so that excludes every technique that involves building rapport. But he is tempted by the forbidden. The elicit. I’m not sure what he’s like these days, but during the war…taking a…mudblood lover and humiliating her — may have been an exercise that would interest him.” 

As Hermione said all of this, choking slightly on the word still carved into her arm, her eyes were affixed to the carpet. Finished, she let them stray to Snape’s face. He posture was more rigid than normal. He appeared slightly uneasy, but also contemplative.

“How would that afford you any information?” he asked quietly.

“It doesn’t, at least not right away. But it gives me access. I may hear things accidentally. See him meeting with people. And if I could please him, it increases trust, which may lead to other opportunities to ask him questions.” She met his eyes and shrugged. “You know. Pillow talk.”

A long, uneasy silence filled the room. Hermione sat listening to the rain pattering against the window and wondered if she said something wrong. 

Finally, he spoke. “I cannot deny the possibility your solution would work. But the danger of such an arrangement would be immense. Draco is not a bad person, but during the war he was pressed by many bad influences.”

“I know,” Hermione said. “He spoke to me about it. We’ve mended fences. As much as is possible, anyway.”

“My point is: the intelligence has to be worth the level of danger you put yourself into. I do not think there is any intelligence we could learn about Rusitania that would be worth putting yourself into that, or any similar position.” 

Again, Snape surprised her. She had thought he would be a “mission at all costs” kind of guy, but he kept circling back to prioritizing her safety. She couldn’t help a smile. “Thank you for saying so, Sir.”

He frowned. “I do not desire your gratitude, but your understanding. During the war, I believe some of your compatriots got in the habit of taking some very extreme, very foolish risks. Choices like that will not serve you well on this assignment. No one can protect you, but you. As a result, you need to be far more conservative in your approach. Never make a move unless you can be assured of your own safety. Do we understand each other?”

He had a point. The war had made her reckless. Desperate. This would not be the same. She gave a firm nod of acknowledgment. “Conservative. Yes. I understand.”

“Fine. Let’s move on. Elicitation is an offensive strategy. Let’s prepare a corresponding defense. You attempt elicitation on an asset, and something goes wrong. They determine you were attempting to manipulate them. They become angry. What do you do?”

“Pretend like I was joking? Change the subject?”

“Possibly. That could work. But what if it does not? What if you’ve destroyed the trust of the asset you’ve been developing? Or worse. What if they decide to report your actions?”

“I guess I would have to start from scratch. Rebuild trust. Deny any accusations levied against me.”

He hummed in the negative. “A slow and risky response. There are easier ways with more of a guarantee. What if they did not remember the conversation at all?”

Hermione felt her entire body freeze. He wasn’t going to…

“Surely you’re familiar with the _Obliviate_ charm?”

She felt as if someone had pushed her to the edge of a rugged cliff and she was staring down its depths to the pointed rocks miles below. She wanted nothing more than to scramble backwards, but her legs were frozen to the spot. The panic welled in her chest, stronger than it had risen in a long time. Her father’s face danced in front of her. _You didn’t even ask us_ , he said, lips tight with pain.

“Miss Granger?” she heard faintly in the distance. “Miss Granger, please demonstrate the _Obliviate_ charm. Do you know it or not?”

It seemed to take all of her strength to pry her eyes from the cliff’s edge and to the Professor’s face, where a mixture of confusion and concern was written. At that moment, she realized she hadn’t taken a breath in some time, and she felt suddenly starved of oxygen. Like there wasn’t enough in the room, in the house, in the entire world, to draw into her body. She began gulping for air, hiccoughing, repeatedly. Tears streamed down her cheeks, not in despair but in the violence of her uncontrolled physical reactions. She gagged and the room went black.

* * *

The Granger girl was folded over herself on the couch, eyes closed, shaking, drawing gasping breaths. 

“Miss Granger? Miss Granger.” His verbal attempts to rouse her from whatever state had overcome her were ineffective. He closed on her, cautiously. 

“Can you hear me?” It did not seem she could. Reaching out gently, he used her shoulder to unfold her and lean her back on the couch. The girl was unresponsive; her eyes, seemingly unseeing. She was hyperventilating, choking on saliva and snot. 

Alarmed, Severus waved his wand and ran a medical diagnostic. Was she having a seizure? A heart attack? No, the diagnostic glowed green. All was well but for severely elevated adrenals. Ah. The problem was one of the mind.

“Morry,” he summoned and she popped into view. 

“What is wrong with mistress?” she said with no small amount of alarm as Hermione loudly struggled for breath.

“Go into the basement and retrieve a Draught of Peace. The purple bottles, not the red.” Morry was back with the proper bottle before he next blinked. She dropped it into his open hand.

He waited a moment, considering. With Miss Granger in this state, it was unlikely he was going to get the potion into her. Not without her choking on it, at least. He had to find another way to calm her first. And to do that, he needed to reach her.

Severus sighed. He knew what he needed to do. He just knew it was going to piss her off later.

Crouching next to the couch, he placed his hands on either side of her head, fingers placed atop her hair and thumbs placed gently on her temples. _Legilimens_ , he said in his mind.

Entering the mind of another for the first time was generally an exercise in getting one’s bearings. Every mind was organized differently, and most barely organized at all. There were rarely maps or guides to find your way — the organization system needed to be learned through experimentation. If one was looking for a specific memory or piece of information, it might require sifting one’s way through vast quantities of data, searching in many places, before acquiring it. Unless you could coerce the subject to lead you to the thing you needed, it was an exercise in patience.

But Miss Granger’s mind was a mind in crisis. And as such, it did not afford Severus the ability to pick his destination. There was no need for a hunt. It immediately shuttled him to the one place that was crowding out all others.

When perception dawned, he was standing atop a cliff, reminiscent of something in the American West. Striations of red-flavored hues wove their way down the surrounding chasm, whose bottom was so distant, he could barely make it out. The sky was a dusty orange and the air was oppressively hot. 

Miss Granger stood right at the chasm’s edge, her heels on the line of the precipice, her back to the void. In front of her, blocking her path to safety, stood a red-faced, menacing man. Perhaps man was a poor descriptor, as he was not entirely opaque, fuzzed at the edges, and nearly twenty feet high. It was an apparition existing somewhere on the border between memory and nightmare. 

What it was was not clear. But one thing was for certain: it was very, very angry. It waved its amorphous, giant arms all around Hermione, its hovering face contorted with anger. 

It was shouting. Miss Granger, for her part, seemed remarkably calm as she watched it. 

_They turned you into something else. Somebody that I don’t recognize._

The apparition froze mid-gesture. Then as if someone was pressing a cosmic-rewind button, he hurriedly reversed all of his movements. Then he was released and carried forward in time once more.

_They turned you into something else. Somebody that I don’t recognize._

Whatever it was, it was looping. Severus watched the loop play once more, then slowly walked towards Hermione, making certain that he did not startle her. He couldn’t be certain if she was a past Hermione lodged in her own memory, or whether this was a present manifestation. Alarming her had the potential to make things worse.

She did not look at him as he approached, her glazed eyes lifted up and fixed to the face of the hovering demon. 

“Are you alright?” he said quietly, once he was beside her.

“Not particularly,” she responded, not breaking her gaze. Good. Contact was made. This seemed to be a present day Hermione. He could work with this.

“Who is this?” he asked, gesturing to the threatening figure who was rewinding once more.

_They turned you into something else. Somebody that I don’t recognize._

“My father,” she said.

“Your father?” he wondered, looking at him again, taking in the devilish features of his face. Any family resemblance twisted away by…rage? Grief? Exaggeration? It was difficult to say. 

She nodded and pressed her fingers to the air. Her gesture sped the figure’s sad pantomime forward past where it had been stuck.

_You violated us, Hermione._

Her fingers indicated interruption once more, and she set a new loop.

_You violated us, Hermione. You violated us, Hermione._ The screeching pain of the voice was nearly unbearable, even for him. 

Severus was no stranger to brutalistic paternal figures, but he had always gotten the sense that Hermione came from much gentler parentage. 

“What happened?” he asked, mystified, stepping around the repeating figure, cautiously. He still wasn’t certain whether this apparition had the potential to harm. It seemed locked into its motions, but who could be certain?

“During the war. I used a memory charm. Wiped their identities. Had to protect them.” Her voice droned from a distant place, as if each syllable took significant effort. Again, she fingered the air to move the figure forward.

_My daughter no longer. My daughter no longer. My daughter no longer._

Understanding started to dawn. His insistence that Hermione use a memory charm had triggered her into a trauma memory. It seemed she had interfered with her Muggle parents’ memories during the war, likely to hide them from Voldemort. Smart girl. 

But what was even more impressive was that she’d been able to restore those memories. Severus was well-acquainted with the duplicitous nature of memory charms. Erasing something was simple. Restoring that muddled, erased mess? Nigh-on impossible. He knew of only three other wizards that could have managed it, himself included, and one was dead.

Despite her impressive efforts, however, it seems her parents were not particularly appreciative of the gesture. What a shame. 

He watched as tears began to slip down Hermione’s cheeks and her foot flirted with the pebbled edge of the cliff.

A part of Severus was annoyed at this turn of events. _Yet another mess for me to clean up_ , it said, not altogether incorrectly. But another part of him felt a burgeoning admiration for her. The spell she must have cast was illegal and arguably immoral. But she had done it to protect those she cared about. And against all odds, it had worked. 

He could only imagine what Voldemort would have done if he had learned of the existence of her defenseless Muggle parents. Better for them to be alive and angry than gone. 

Hermione understood this. She was strong. Even if she didn’t realize it yet.

“It’s not real,” he decided to point out.

“I know,” she replied.

“We are in your mind. You have power over it. You control its actions. What words it repeats. Its appearance,” he said.

“I know that too,” she said evenly, restarting her father’s demonic gyrations.

“Then you also know you have the power to remove it from this place. To banish it so you can leave.”

Her eyes momentarily swiveled from the creature to lock with his. “I don’t deserve that,” she said with aching sadness.

His response was interrupted by a scratching, sliding sound as Hermione’s foot slipped, causing her to lose her balance.

Time slowed as she waved her arms in increasingly panicked circles, seeking to reverse her momentum. He reached out to stabilize her, but found his hand was seemingly moving at a snail’s pace. All he could do was watch as she slowly fell back, slipping over the cliff. Her disappearance over the edge vanished the apparition and snapped time back into its regular rhythm.

“Bloody hell,” grumbled Severus. And not hesitating, took three running steps and jumped.


	5. Moodshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously:_
> 
> _Previously: While training Hermione in espionage techniques in preparation for her mission to isolationist wizard-state Rusitania, Severus inadvertently triggers Hermione into a panic attack by asking her to reproduce the memory charm she used to erase her parent’s memories. He enters her mind to find her on the edge of a desert cliff, trapped in a trauma loop, tormented by a demon spouting the angry words of her father. Hermione slipped off the cliff’s edge, and Severus jumped after her._

Falling in someone’s mind was always a dicey business. Even in his own dreams, it was a 50/50 shot of whether he would be able to orient himself properly with the wind and begin to push against gravity, or violently slam into the ground below.

The good news is that falling in the mind was never fatal. Well. Rarely fatal. At worst, splatting on the rocks would forcefully sever the spell binding his mind to Miss Granger’s. His physical body might be knocked over with the ejecting force of the spell, but the likelihood of serious harm was very small. Even so, splatting against jagged rocks at speed wasn’t an event he was particularly keen to experience. 

Severus tried to ignore the increasing speed of the striated rocks passing him, and the raging pressure of the air billowing past his face. Taking a breath, he opened his arms to that opposing pressure and concentrated. And he managed a small swoop upwards. He smiled. So it was to be that sort of dream.

Encouraged, he spied Miss Granger’s form several meters below him. Orienting himself towards her, he made his body stiff and straight as a needle, jettisoning himself in her direction. He gained on her and soon enough, he was at her side, matching her pace as she tumbled. 

“While striking the bottom may not be fatal, it still may be unpleasant,” he said to her loudly, to drown out the wind. “I recommend against it.”

She turned to him, surprise written on her face. “How are you here?” she asked.

“Turns out I can fly here,” he answered.

She took a moment to contemplate this. “I’d heard something about you flying before,” she said.

“Of course you had. If you did not believe me to be capable of it, I wouldn’t be doing it right now. It is only possible because your mind believes that I am able.”

The ground was closing on them. A cold-looking aqua river that cut across the chasm was filling his view far too quickly. He made a move to reach for her, but she batted his hand away.

“Don’t interfere,” she said angrily. “I mean to fall.”

“By all means,” he said, holding his hands back in a sign of surrender. “It’s just that I’d like to speak to you briefly, and there isn’t sufficient time before we hit bottom. Allow me to slow our descent. Should you still wish to fall afterwards, I’ll be happy to fly you back up to the top and throw you off the cliff myself.”

He watched her worry this through in her mind, keeping one eye fixed on the imminent landscape expanding below him. Finally, she gave him a curt nod and he sprung into action, switching directions in mid-air, and seizing her under her knees and shoulders. He wasn’t entirely sure how he controlled speed in this setting, so he just fixed in his mind the desire to go up as quickly as possible, and noticed with relief that their speed was slowing.

After a moment, they alighted gently on a broad, flat rock adjacent to the aqua rapids. Severus put Hermione down and took a firm step backwards.

She turned to the river, her back to him. “I’ve never been down here before,” she said slightly dreamily. “At least not like this. I’ve fallen into that river dozens of times. Sometimes I hit that rock over there,” she said, gesturing towards a spiky rock projection across the river that did not look at all fun to impale oneself on.

So she was often here, trapped in this loop of self-flagellation. He felt a pang of alarm. If this was a regular event, it would not do. Not only was she far too vulnerable when in this state, but he knew wizards that had become lost to trauma loops like this. Trapped, prisoners in their own minds.

A wizard in a trauma loop would emerge from the loop once they felt they’d doled out sufficient self-punishment. He could just let her fall. The impact would likely rouse her. But wizards with overdeveloped consciences, like Miss Granger, could sometimes grow to feel that no amount of punishment was ever enough. Self-punishment could become a drug one developed a tolerance to. The more often you tortured yourself, the more numb you would become to it, the more pain you needed to feel cleansed. 

No, he couldn’t just let her fall. She’d clearly fallen enough. He needed to interrupt the loop entirely.

“Did Neville ever tell you what happened to his parents?” he asked abruptly, his voice gentle.

Hermione turned sharply, surprise clear on her face. “We met his mother. In St. Mungo’s on Christmas Day when he was visiting.”

“So you saw what they did to her. What she became after the _Cruciatus_.”

Hermione nodded somberly.

“I was there that night. The night they tortured Alice and Frank. I witnessed their minds slowly slipping away from them.”

Her eyes were wide with horror. “And you didn’t stop them?” she said angrily.

“I would have tried had I even the slimmest chance of success. But it was impossible. And as terrible as it was, I have seen worse than that. I once watched Voldemort turn a witch inside out. Her organs and muscles were on the outside of her body. She lived, watching through unseated eyes dangling from her retinas, as he carved pieces of her still-breathing lungs and still-thumping hearts from her. He gave the flesh to owls to carry to her loved ones. He delivered her one slow piece of flesh at a time.”

Hermione was pale. She draped her arm across her stomach as if she was going to be sick. “Why are you telling me this?” she demanded, her voice wild.

“So you understand. So you know what you saved your parents from. What inevitably would have been their fate without your intervention.”

He took a step towards her, speaking quickly and emphatically now. “He would have stopped at _nothing_ to get to you. Do you understand that? Nothing. Oh, he hated Harry. But he hated you worst of all. Your parentage, your excellence — both were reminders for him of a past he could not leave behind him, no matter how many he killed.”

Her eyes were cast down and she was shaking her head rapidly, as if to drown him out. “I should have asked them first,” she said, her voice wavering.

“And risk that they would have said no? No. Better to ask forgiveness than permission. The price of failure was far too high.”

She doubled over with pain. “I lost them anyhow!” she near-screamed.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, pushing her upright, forcing eye contact on her. “You spared them excruciating pain. And there is still hope for reconciliation one day.”

He watched her clench her jaw, gritting her teeth against his words, looking anywhere but at him. Finally, she met his eyes. “Logically, I understand what you’re telling me. It makes sense. But I still can’t accept it. A part of me just completely rejects it. In here,” she said, pointing to her chest.

The issue was a subconscious one then. He sighed. The subconscious was not his favorite place. It was the antithesis of logic — deeply steeped in nonsense. And getting through it was going to take too much time. He decided to try a different tact. 

“In the real world right now, you are in my office having an attack of panic while you are trapped in this loop. We need to exit the loop and return to reality.”

This knowledge visibly surprised her, but he saw resolve creep across her features. “Fine. How do I do that?” she asked.

“The strength of your feelings from this memory are dominating your higher functions. You must shuffle it backwards in your mind -- allow it to drop in priority.”

“An occlumency technique?” she wondered.

“You are familiar with it?”

She shook her head. “Only with the theory. How do I actually do it?”

“Close your eyes.” She did so. “Connect with the feelings of guilt and grief you have around this memory. Then feel them get heavier with weight. Like they are attached to a balloon slowly filling with wet sand. Feel it get heavier, heavier, and allow it to drop.”

Slowly, the light around him began to dim. She was doing it. “Deeper still, Miss Granger. Picture those emotions tied to an anchor. Feel them slowly sink down through layers of increasing darkness.” Darkness enveloped his vision entirely. 

Light sprang into his view as he emerged from her mind. He was still bent over Miss Granger on the couch, his hands twirled through her curled hair at the temples, his legs cramping angrily beneath him. Stiffly, he rose to stand and looked at her to evaluate her condition. Her eyes were open, and while her breathing was still labored, it was easier now, the only physical evidence remaining of her attack the drool on her shirt and the rivulets of wet on her face. 

He took the draught of peace from Morry. “Drink this,” he ordered.

She put up her hand to refuse it. “Calming draughts don’t do much for me these days,” she said wearily.

Severus scoffed. “As if I would give you some off-the-shelf brew. It’s from my private stock. Drink it.”

She gave him a shrug as if to say _If you want to waste it on me, that’s your choice_ and downed the bottle. He watched her closely the next few moments, as her breathing slowed and the color returned to her face.

“Better?” he asked.

“Actually, yes,” she said surprised. “Thank you.”

He paused, not really wanting to move forward. He didn’t want to have this conversation. It shouldn’t be his job to have this conversation. But there was no avoiding it now, was there? Best to plow forward and get it over with. “How long have you been having panic attacks?” 

“Years now,” she responded vaguely.

“Since the war?”

“Since a little after.”

“And have you seen someone about it?”

“Yes.” 

Her short answers were beginning to wear on him. Surely she knew what he was driving at, but he was apparently going to have to pry it out of her. “Who?”

“Michael Pritchley.”

He turned to look at her, astonished. “Michael _Pritchley_? Are you serious?”

“Perfectly,” she said with a defensive calm.

“Hermione, Michael Pritchley is a _squib_!” he nearly shouted.

She rolled her eyes at him as if he were acting ridiculously. “So? He’s helped me. Given me some useful tools to deal with the panic.”

“Yes, I can clearly see how much he’s helped you, you unbelievable idiot.” Severus knew the sarcasm and the insult weren’t going to help matters, but he was so frustrated with her, he couldn’t help himself.

Anger flashed across her face. The fact that she could even get angry under the influence of his strongest calming potion spoke to the strength of her reaction. “Michael has helped me. Just because I’m under a lot of stress right now and I slipped up doesn’t mean you get to insult me.”

“Why did you write your ward theory in arithmancy instead of Muggle mathematics?” he spat out suddenly. 

She had clearly been gearing up to dress him down further but his unexpected question disarmed her. “What?” she stammered out.

“Why did you attend Hogwarts instead of a Muggle school? Why do you go to St. Mungo’s instead of a Muggle hospital?” he continued rapidly, adding points of emphasis with his hands. “Why? Because you’re a witch! You are not a Muggle. Magic runs through your body. Your physiology is literally altered by it. Your brain is magical.” 

He could sense his exasperation and frustration were coming through too strongly. He took a breath and tried to make his voice more measured. “Your trauma - even your trauma has magical origins. Magical consequences. You cannot just learn some breathing exercises and expect it all to go away. It does not work like that for you.” 

He stole a look at her, fully expecting to see rage, but was instead met with chagrin. “I know,” she nearly whispered. “I know that. But I can’t…I don’t want to just wave a wand and have this taken from me. I don’t deserve to have it be that easy.”

Ah. And they’d arrived at the heart of the matter. The same thing she’d implied to him inside her head. That she was somehow deserving of her attacks as punishment and penance for her sin. Clearly she’d internalized the notion deeply.

Her eyelids started to close of their own accord. The calming draught and the aftereffects of the panic attack were hitting her simultaneously.

He stood over her, watching her fight to keep her eyelids open. “We can finish this later. You should get some rest,” he said. “Would you prefer I move you to your room?”

“No,” she murmured, eyes half shut. “I really like this couch.” As if to demonstrate how much, she wriggled slightly into it, snuggling into its depths.

He watched her as she began to drift off. From his jacket pocket, he retrieved a silk handkerchief and wanded a silent transfiguration spell over it. It twirled in his hand, with each revolution expanding and growing until it had achieved the size of a large blanket. Gently, he draped it over Miss Granger’s sleeping form.

He trotted from the room, gesturing for his elf to follow. They met in the entry. “I have some business I need to attend to,” he said quietly, pulling on his coat. “Keep an eye on Miss Granger while I am away. She should just continue sleeping, but contact me if there are any issues.”

“Of course, Master,” Morry said with a shaky bow. If the elf was frazzled, that wasn’t entirely surprising. This was more excitement than the house had seen in years.

Stalking into the dining room, he grabbed the floo powder, stepped into the fireplace, and spoke the words “Ministry of Magic”.

* * *

He descended on the Ministry with unbridled ferocity. Shacklebolt’s assistant chased after him, claiming he was out, but Severus ignored her. The door locks were easily disenchanted and with minimal fuss he inserted himself inside Shacklebolt’s private office.

Kingsley, for his part, looked unsurprised. He was seated at his desk, glass of wine half-emptied and a stack of papers in front of him. “Severus,” he said in acknowledgment.

 _Muffliato_ , Snape spoke to the room, wanding the familiar pattern. Then turned to Shacklebolt. “This isn’t going to work,” he said, emphasizing each syllable with appropriate venom.

Shacklebolt waved his hand dismissively. “I already told you Severus. It isn’t your job to make that determination.”

“You misunderstand. The girl is war-damaged.”

“Aren’t we all?” he replied glibly.

“Not like this, Kingsley. Listen to me.” Severus leaned forward and placed both of his hands on his desk on either side of his papers. “She entered into a full _laqueus traumatica_ in my office this afternoon. She’s trauma looping. Panic attack trigger with full physical incapacitation. It’s a self-punishment loop that is dangerously teetering on the permanent. If I hadn’t…” 

“I am well aware of her condition, Severus,” Shacklebolt interrupted.

Severus was taken aback. He rose upright. “You are? You’re aware of the severity of her attacks? And you’re sending her in there anyway?”

Shacklebolt did not respond. Which was an answer of a kind. “You can’t be serious. They are going to eat her alive.”

“Has she withdrawn from the mission?” Shacklebolt interjected.

“No, but…”

“Then she’s going. Her involvement in this is entirely voluntary. If she chooses to go, that is her choice to make.”

“Damn it, Kingsley. She’s Hermione Granger. She’s basically powered by do-goodery. There isn’t any universe in which she would say no to you, and you are exploiting that.”

Shacklebolt spread his hands wide. “I cannot control people’s motivations. I can only offer them choices.”

“Don’t be disingenuous,” Snape barked. “This is no choice at all, and you know it.”

Shacklebolt stood and began walking a slow circle around the desk. “What’s gotten into you, Severus? Not four days ago, you were demanding to not be held responsible if she died. And now you’re here in an attempt to guarantee her safety? Have you become…” Shacklebolt cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. “…attached? So quickly? She is a pretty little thing.”

Severus growled loudly, and in one swift motion had Shacklebolt backed against a wall, Snape’s wand pressing into his neck. Kingsley raised his hands in surrender and laughed.

“You win, Severus. You win. Am I hearing that you want to call off our deal? Of course, it’s your right to do so. Just bear in mind, you will forfeit your freedoms forever. You won’t get another opportunity like this.”

The threat hit its mark. Severus felt his anger ebb and dropped both of his arms in defeat. He couldn’t go back to living that half-life. What was he hoping to achieve anyhow? Shacklebolt was right: it was Hermione’s choice. Even if he pressed her, he didn’t think she would choose not to go at this point. His shoulders slumped and he stepped back.

“Damn you Shacklebolt. You’ve become as bad as Dumbledore.”

Kingsley nodded his head at that. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

“It’s not,” Snape said dully. 

Cautiously, Kingsley clapped a hand on Snape’s shoulder. “Her success or failure is in your hands, Severus. Not mine. Had I the dark mark, perhaps I could shield her, but unfortunately only you can do that. You want her to make it through this? Great. Patch her up, give her the support and knowledge she needs. Get it done and get her home.”

“All so you can save face with the wizarding community? Her life is the price of maintaining your power?” he spat out that final word.

Shacklebolt looked far away for a moment. “I wish this was only about me. What do you suppose will happen if the heartstring supply dries up?”

“Presumably you’ll start breeding more unicorns,” he responded with the driest of deliveries.

Kingsley started to say something, then thought better of it and stopped himself, shaking his head. “I’ll just say this. The stakes are higher than you think, Severus.”

“To men like you, they always are,” he volleyed back with disgust, then slipped out the door.

* * *

Brimming with tension and pent-up magic, Snape chose to disapparate instead of flooing home. The near-violence of rapid apparition was a satisfying outlet for unresolved stress. He took a round-about route, landing at some of his favorite vantage points in wizarding England.

But the sights were not the balm for the soul they normally were. His mind was buzzing the entire journey. Was this to be his curse, then? To have yet another vulnerable young person put into his charge against impossible odds? First he was charged with Draco’s care. Then he had the safety of the entire student body of Hogwarts to balance against compromising his own cover. It seemed Hermione was to be the next cursed victim to cross his path. 

In a perfect world, he would be able to maintain cold indifference in the face of these forced charges. He would be able to do the ruthless calculus of how much harm they could reasonably endure and weigh it against the value of the greater good. Like Dumbledore and Shacklebolt seemed to be able to do. But he found himself unable to conjure the same detachment they wielded so well. 

Severus kept distance from people for good reasons. There were the standard reasons: people were cruel, unpleasant and always needed something from you. But behind that, he also realized that if he came to know a person well, he found himself entirely unable to shut off his emotions the way his ‘betters’ seemed to be able to. If he kept his emotional distance, he could watch someone be tortured and not bat an eye. But if he knew them…Charity’s face flashed into his mind again and his breath caught. 

He could not compartmentalize in that way. It did not seem to be part of his wiring. His protective instincts were apparently overgrown. 

In a perfect world, he could maintain the necessary distance between himself and Miss Granger. They had been on track for that before he had to enter her head. But now, it seemed he already knew too much. Now his brain crawled with a hundred different ideas for how to further safeguard her, whether he wanted it to or not.

Yes, it seemed he was cursed. Cursed to start caring about his charges’ well-being simply because he was given charge of it. How very weak he was.

He was tired of these contrivances. These power games. He was tired of being used and tired of being told to use others. Tired of being given impossible tasks and being made to feel guilty for not achieving them.

But what choice did he have? If he bailed out now, it would not help either of them. Granger would be stranded without any support, and he would remain trapped in his current purgatory.

No, the only way forward was to grit his teeth and try to see them both through this. 

And afterwards, he would never be beholden to anyone ever again.

* * *

It was dark when he arrived home, and the couch in his library was conspicuously empty, the handkerchief-turned-blanket crumpled into a heap at one side.

“Morry,” he called, the elf popping into place at his side. “Where is Miss Granger?”

“Mistress…erm….” The elf was fidgeting nervously at her fingers, a new habit acquired in the last few days that he hoped would subside as quickly as it had come on. 

“Where. Is. She,” he repeated, dangerous and low.

“Mistress is in the reading room. Please do not be upset with Morry. Morry tried to stop her.”

“Stop her from what?” he asked, but instead of waiting for an answer, he rounded the corner and carved a path to the reading room.

The small room contained only bookshelves, one small cabinet, a side table supporting a candelabra, and a black wooden armchair with a navy tufted cushion on it.

Hermione sat in that chair, feet on the table, tipping backwards, a crystal-etched glass in her hand.

“Professhor!” she cried in elation, a touch of sibilance on the S’s, raising her glass to him before downing it in three large gulps. 

Hermione Granger was drunk. And judging by the brightly colored liquor she was refilling from an iridescent rainbow bottle, she’d raided his private stocks. 

Of course she had selected _that_ bottle.

She reached for the shimmering rainbow bottle with the prismed crystal top to refill her glass. “I was surprised to see you had Moodshine,” she said. “I will say, it is quite useful to be told what my mood is. I rarely can tell these days.” The liquid poured a shimmering grey-green. The color of a stormy sea at dawn. 

“It was a gift,” he said in a monotone. Charity had purchased it for him years ago. Joked with him about how it would probably always pour black for him, no matter his actual mood. Now he couldn’t drink it without thinking of her, so it always poured a dark, deep blue. The color of sorrow.

The drink in Hermione’s hand glowed in the dark room, lighting up her face. Her eyes reflected the green light, creating an eerie effect. She was darkly luminous in this moment: sitting in the dark, her mad hair spilling all around her, cheeks painted with drunken color and eyes sparkling with ominous light. Being someone who appreciated the beauty of dark imagery, he stared longer than was strictly polite. Being intoxicated, she did not notice.

She held up a parchment with swatches of color on it and compared it to the drink. “Envy?” he inquired politely, trying to humor her.

“Hmmmm,” she said, her faced scrunched up in concentration as she tried to match the color. “No. That’s a darker green. It’s shame, I think. Last pour was purple. Fear, apparently. I’m all over the place.”

That she was. And that was the core problem to address this evening. But Miss Granger clearly had other ideas. She threw back a generous swig from her glass, then coughed, the liquor getting the better of her.

She recovered quickly and smiled broadly at him. “Join me?” she asked, piercing him with her glowing eyes.

There were other things to be done this night. But they could wait a moment. He genuinely wanted a drink after the day he’d had. A voice in his head sang out that it was inappropriate to drink with a student. But that was nonsense. He wasn’t a professor any longer. She wasn’t his student anymore. She was a full-grown adult wizard, same as he. If anything, they were colleagues.

He gave her a curt nod, and watched her face shift into a panoply of giddy delight. He tried to ignore it. He wasn’t having a drink because she wanted him to. He was having one because he wanted to.

“I don’t drink in the dark,” he said, flinging a series of flames towards the candelabra, instantly brightening the room. Then he gently twisted his hand in the air, flicking his fingers at the appropriate intervals, and a kitchen chair melted through the wall and placed itself on the other side of the table. Flinging his coattails out, he took his seat.

Hermione sighed gently. “Your magic is so beautiful sometimes. It comes as naturally to you as breathing, doesn’t it?”

Beautiful? As much as his ego enjoyed the stroking, it was only a simple _Incendio_ followed by a _Liquidus Locomotor_ \- the first to liquify the wall, the second to move the chair. Spells he was certain the accomplished Miss Granger could do in her sleep. “I am certain you have both of those spells mastered,” he pointed out.

“I could perform them, sure,” she said. “But had you asked me to get you a chair, I would have walked into the other room and physically drug a chair back in here. Magic isn’t even my first instinct most of the time.” 

He snorted dismissively. “Instincts are formed when we’re young. You had a non-magical upbringing so your connection to it is more cognitive. It makes you no less of a witch.”

She gave him a small smile. “You’re kind to say so.” He was nothing of the sort. Only stating facts. 

He realized she was looking at him expectantly. “So? Get on with it. Pour one out and let’s have a look,” she demanded.

“No.” He had no desire to share the story of this bottle right now. “You pour. I drink.”

She stuck her bottom lip out and pouted at him like a child. “Aw. But don’t you want to know your mood?”

“There is no need. I am well aware of my mood.”

“But maybe _I_ want to know your mood.”

“Maybe you should mind your own business.”

She let out a pretty giggle at that, then grabbed the bottle and poured him a finger. The liquid came out a bright golden color. He recognized that color: curiosity. He tipped the glass at her in thanks and let the burning liquid claw its way into his throat. It was hard not to make a face. Moodshine was strong and not known for being smooth, despite its colorful appearance. He knocked the glass back onto the table, and she reached to pour another in the same golden yellow color.

She grinned at him and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Tell you what. Let’s play a game. If I guess your mood right, you drink. If I guess wrong, I drink.”

“No. You are already too intoxicated for a drinking game in which you will surely lose,” he observed.

“I see your point, but counterpoint? You are no fun," she said, laughing. "Okay. Alternate rules: if I guess your mood right, you have to admit it to me?”

“No,” he said again, sipping at the glass of golden alcohol.

But she had the selective hearing of the seriously inebriated and was determined to barrel forward anyhow. “Here goes. You are…” she strung out the words, searching his face with her slightly glazed eyes. Then she snapped her fingers. “I got it! Annoyed!” she announced cheerfully. “Aren’t you? Annoyed? You look pretty annoyed. And rightfully so. I mean, I blew up your lesson plan today. You had to weedle around in my head. I’m drinking your booze. I get it. I’d be annoyed if I were you.”

“Incorrect,” he said reflexively, and on second examination, found it to be true. He was incensed at the Ministry, but he was not feeling any annoyance towards Miss Granger. Which was somewhat surprising given her current choice to raid his liquor cabinet and pester him relentlessly about his mood.

“Hm,” she said frowning. “I could have sworn that was it. But then, you always look sort of annoyed with me, so it might be messing with my radar.”

Did he? He was aware that he masked his face heavily, but he strove for a look of neutral confidence. He didn’t realize he was projecting annoyance.

“I assure you, I am not annoyed with you, Miss Granger. Though that has the potential to change if you continue to persist in this line of questioning.”

Her mouth made an “o”-shape in mock shock at his remark. “Fine, fine. You win. Your mood will remain an enigma. Lost to the agesh.” Her speech was getting more slurred by the moment.

“Do you know what I like about you Professhor?” she drawled, a loose smile spread across her cheeks. _Oh here we go_ , he groaned internally. The choice to drink with her was looking worse by the moment. “I like. That you never give me. That look.”

What on earth was she babbling about now? “What look?” he asked, and immediately regretted it.

“You know. The _look_. The ‘why aren’t you living up to your potential’ look. The ‘stop being broken, it’s inconvenient for me’ look. You never even ashked me why I didn’t accept an apprenticeship after school.” She cocked her head at him. “Why didn’t you ashk?”

Had she not accepted an apprenticeship after school? Well that was certainly unfortunate, but none of his business. He didn’t pay heed to such things. “Because I didn’t particularly care. Your life choices are not my concern.”

“Yes!” she raised her empty glass towards him in a mock toast. “That’s it _exactly_! Why can’t more people be like you?”

She was looking at him, expectantly, like she was awaiting an answer to her rhetorical question. For some reason, he felt like giving her one.

“Because most people are judgmental busy-bodies who cannot cope with their lack of control over others.”

Hermione tossed her head back and laughed. A great belly laugh that left her gasping and slapping the table. “Tell me more Professhor,” she drawled. “Tell me more about how awful other people are.”

It was somewhat fascinating to see how cynical the idealist had become. The cynic in him celebrated it — recognized and welcomed a kindred spirit to the table. But something else was panging at him: a profound sense of waste. To him, this was not who Hermione Granger was. Something precious had been lost, and he was not sure the world was better for it. The scales were in desperate need of rebalancing. And he had a thought on how to do it.

The glass was about to slip from her hand, so in a swift motion he liberated it from her, setting it back on the table. Enough indulgence. It was time to remedy the situation.

“I would be delighted to converse about the depravity of man another time. But at this moment, we have other things to do.” He rose and beckoned for her to follow. 

“Where are you going?” she asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

“You’ll see. Come.”


End file.
